“What do you comprehend?” protests Joel, going to say, “You believe you realize what thrives in my heart? I am madly in love with her!”
“Do not be so angered. As a friend, I merely wish to speak with sole honesty. You are in torment with her, and even without her physical presence,” says Aaron.
Aaron’s voice is calm, resolute, and without restriction. It is that Joel’s voice quivers in this declining night, stayed in apparent grief for her missing presence. It is evident on his features, as it merely proves Aaron’s words.
He holds her scent upon his clothing. He is intoxicated by that detail, like wilting leaves against his skin, though he is the bent one.
He is submissive to even her invisibility.
Like any truest woman of that understood sort, to compare her to the spider, to the serpent, to the disguise upon any face of hers, it is in loathing that we regard it. Deep loathing that never rests. We never take ourselves apart of our own accord, to sleep like rotting logs near a fragile lake. We weep so gently to her curves, falter before her forest where floods the breeze, and hold close the moon that is her face. We cannot lower ourselves, deign ourselves, any further to dispose of such a treat. Though, in her embrace, we matter much, for nothing at all.
Modern Romanticism 
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