He stands, to then sit. To sit, then stand, again. Restlessness has him writing a letter both upon desk and heart. A signature bends itself, over the letter, to the submissiveness of holding on. Streaks for loving smiles. Futures that can think on their own, though collapse in the rush. Of blood that reeks of the tamed past, among the forgotten current.
Hitting the desk with a stamp, belonging now to the P.O. A face most driven, of silent, anxious sobbing to himself, under the curtain of disarray. He wants.
Wanting so well, to be near to the woman whose hand shall be nestled with a trophy. A circle of gold for the finger, torn free from the dust in his heart. One smile. One beautiful, blissful curve above a chin. A bed for the burning he has kept, as this detail shall not come thwarted. Represent him, oh, world, for the yearning has him spilling his face upon the gravel before his next motions.
Striding without life wrapped in his arms. Walking in a lonely pace, purely held on the love that quenches all this plentiful stares both north and south. To the face of hers, then to the hands to be held outwards. One watching to the great end of that moment, while the other drenches his hands in the trembling. The quake, beating from the heart that knew only loneliness. What a fountain that shall, upon that second in decadence, spout forth the tides to hold her.
It is love that signs the signature, while it is faith that never lets the ink dry. Always a fresh wound, as the greatest reminder to what had been picked up, to then retain the grip.