None
Of these tears
Were cried too early
From hollow hands,
For I run these stained fingers
Over your heavenly curves,
Bleeding with you,
For every word has been true.
Pain is the symphony
To carry you
Past these ruins,
Beyond these discarded hearts
We cannot gather
For the empty one,
Fading our lives in the rain,
Leaving trust to the grain.
Every word is a symptom
To this very love.
Each of my syllables
Undone from my sown mouth
Holds your fever close,
Lets you inside
To walls that shake,
To warmth that wakes.
My love,
With chestnut locks
Worn about your neck and shoulders,
Of tears mistaken
For the raindrops,
Hold your head upon my chest,
And decide with the rest,
That my heart has filled your own.
Modern Romanticism 