Modern Romanticism

How does one reach within

The bare chest of a woman, without covering

To receive the heart that has darkened itself

To the sun?

Love usually fed upon her flesh

Enough that when I came to her

She was the sun, not the moon that cries in the shadows.

She received no darkness upon one side of her face,

Nor did she have the many masks

To conceal each grain of pain.

Life squandered her

Of love’s endeavor

To show her trust,

To create rush

Against her pale skin

And blueish eyes.

I will leave love at the doorstep

Of her scented heart

To see if she

Will pick it up to me,

To withhold it.