Modern Romanticism

I have forgotten what it meant for her to stay alive. I have forgotten what it meant for her to keep trying. Love was once the ground for her to walk upon, though it has collapsed beneath herself.

She bleeds tears to create the roses, with dew to drop off petals into the ground. Pain should be the leaving, not the love. Yet, pain has had the many thorns raising themselves, from the stem, the form of hers, when she raises herself like the rose. All she feels, is what the thorns carry.

Upon her cheeks, she has been receiving hollow kisses. I had aimed to shed a kiss upon her lips, to make her heart glow bright and true.

Why is it that when love wishes to walk, it sometimes quits its path?

Why is it that when life wishes to grieve, it will never receive its rest?

Her and I, like two petals that do not graze each other. We do not brush against the other, even during the greatest of storms, in the now. For in the now, we are just as the hollow Earth, drumming our way past one another, to where each idea is swallowed up in the soil. Each trivial thing, not alike what we had.

I will die with knowing that I had not her lips upon mine, nor her eyes against my sight.

Beauty rushes against clouds, it seems, when rain comes lashing against our skin, and we see our fragility in the openness. Even in the darkness, I see myself, knowing there is light somewhere, though I ignore it.

I am nothing without the everything I had hoped to be.