Modern Romanticism

Why do we lift,

Why do we escape

Deep into the form of a woman?

That blush against the skin,

That subtle kiss on a whim,

That way to speak into the ear of a listener

Who will sigh, in return.

The embrace, and the breath,

The catching of her falling tears,

Those miserable fears

That are hurled away to the streets,

Allows passion to be gained, beneath sheets.

I am always the one

To feel the scorn from the sun.

I am always the one

To keep this moment undone.

Not bound,

Not entwined,

Merely loose with limbs sprawled

Upon the rising immaculacy

Of one quilt, in the texture of milk.

Your neck is breathed into,

Your beauty is welcomed,

Your scent is inhaled,

Your eyes are formed in my mind,

Your state is incurable,

Your wish is everyone's command,

But I have been the one to conquer the light

Of the star.