Emotion. Aflame, with attempted designation to the rope. The rope, for it cannot be cut with a knife. It cannot, for it cannot hold its weight’s own will. Its weight, of a form that wishes for death. A death that would leave countless tears to rot at the feet of their rejecter. Love waits. It waits, though spends years in the search. Has it found whatever whisper is so different from the wind?
She will plummet. She will fall to see her reflection, in an ocean she has spilled from her eyes. She will plummet to the glass, the recognition of her tiredness. She will soak herself in what she despises.
I can. I can cut that rope. I can loosen her from her end. I can bring tears back to her eyes. I can lift this whole ocean.
I can open her, for another time. Trust? Is it so much to yearn for, for how fragile she has become? Dust cannot offer trust. I am a man with regrets that stand at his feet, and do not rise to meet his nostrils. I doubt myself, and these fires will not be put out.
We loved with blue to the oceans, and green to the skies. We grew thorns that all died when the petals came loose. We breathed many scenes of our stories, where dreams were our tokens to a better life. Outside, we were nothing. Inside, we were everything. But, a new tear has fallen.
I cannot bandage this wound, anymore. I cannot burn the rope, to let her down.
My eyes sting with jealousy. Dreams crash, as the waves that recede back to realization. A recognition, for a mirror with fragments already so unlike whatever beauty she possessed. A recognition that stands on those fragments, bleeding from the nakedness of stilled feet.
Broken heart surgery. Broken heart melody. Broken heart catastrophe. I am ended, as she is beginning her transfer.
Modern Romanticism 