She holds a smile in her hands, while filming the ocean’s sounds with her heart. Sounds that return to her, upon when the waters lick the shoreline. Sounds that matter only to a world that never responded quick enough, upon when sickness took her beloved. A world that only gave a whisper from a dying heart, from breathing lungs, as his eyes closed to one last fallen tear.
She holds her heart in her chest, bare with wickedness to each sagging breast. Roses are collected at her feet, missing their stems, while leaving the red to flood a clashing wave of vermillion to the drifting sea. Her mouth comes open, to let loose not merely a syllable, though a breath to it, as well. A gust, and half a name that was matched, rips from her tongue, and lays flat upon her lips. The ocean does not take it.
She drifts. Her eyes wander, as the ocean does, to the skyline, in view of a rising sun. In darkness, she cascades. In this darkness, tears run to form puddles beneath her eyes.
Love lost, as she finds her breath in the ocean. She hears her yearning in the waves. She hears him, like the whisper from a dying heart and lungs, battering the chapter closed. She hears a love that never gave another day.
Yet, the sun rises, makes a glimpse of light, a slight feeling of warmth, to her face. How can another day matter, to this stem, this bush, whose roses have fallen? How can it matter, when she bleeds her colors to the blue?
Her arms, so bare, hold shoulders that tremble.
Her face swims in her torment. An apocalypse of grief, where hearts turn black, as oceans turn grey. How many eyes turn her way? How many embraces can she hold? How much sickness can allot itself? How much more? How many places can she open herself, to be shut inside as a mouse to its temptation?
Of blood, so warm, yet it drains from her, to the cold ocean. The sea, where fires are lit on the horizon, though bring no relief. The glaciers of her grief stand like lighthouses, guiding her sighs along to be passed. Out her throat, and then, on towards the madness of another thousand nights to weep herself to sleep.
For she had buried it all, deep in her heart. She had lost it all, deep in the soil. Six feet that averages the height of a man, growing under the earth. The roots of his memories scatter and spread like trails of ebony. Of darkness that leaves its moments for this woman to remember. And, is it a curse?
Gently, she leans her head back to view the sky. Its pallidity wraps her. Its overcast appearance takes her. For she wishes to be an angel that knows no distance.
Modern Romanticism 