Curtains, as everyone’s enemy. Concealment, of a human side, made as blessed. Safety was our concern, as all to everyone’s fear. Though, love would not lose. Love would not depart. Not ever, safely. Not at all, without the storm.
We are weary. In each other’s arms, we are heavy. I’ve granted you the yearning to live. I’ve given you the life sentence, to someplace for your adoration. Would you want Death, in life’s stead? Would you steal the moon, for the sun? Would coldness be your rebuke, to this promise of warmth? You would confess to being of another’s kind, of Death’s kinder words, for He has perhaps promised you more.
To the noose, you would go? Without the fortune of love, you should slow? A pulse to decline, a heartbeat that once skipped upon rocks to meet the other end of a lake, now to be just a repetition for your descension.
Love has made you wanting. For rest.
Though, not in these arms. Though, within skeletal ones. Death has made you a bed. You would lie on it. You would count the stars, in fierce vigor. You would then erase the moon, into blackness.
What concerns you, my love? Fragile one, what has turned you? Far from me, away from me, bleeding through Death’s door, with your back to me?
You would rain upon your own shelter. You would bend me, to break me. You would weigh me. We were both heavy. Were we not?
Modern Romanticism 