An inward pace
To a selfish place,
I can hold the melting snow
Fallen from your limbs.
You cry
Porcelain, to the fire.
Frozen droplets,
While each arm of yours
Brings temptation, with breath
To hold you, in this trance.
We dance
Within white noise.
Taking to a pace,
For that selfish place
Where the world can be
Duly ignored.
Love has waited,
As the clouds have mourned
Enough, to root us,
To bring us up.
Singing in place of the moon,
Circling in the space
Of this room.
For bed, and its shallow sheets
Sinking us in afterthought;
Weeping for what miles
We did conquer.
We love
In the bloom,
Of ourselves, in the grace,
In the trace of this rush.
Modern Romanticism 