“Love is felt, on knees, before the unseen, before the unexpected to have happened, before the rose that never wilted. We eat the storm’s rain, though it drains to our mouths from the opened wrist, as crimson. Love is bled, from a vein that drips its contents into our parted lips. We feel our weakness to it, the love, while we require blankets to nurture our wounds.
Humans are nothing but their own skin, without love to make that ethereal. Without love, a human is vainly strong, for their weakness in love is never bad.
A weakness, in love, is with trembling arms, stalled legs, though with curved mouth to form a smile.”– Modern Romanticism