How simple it is
To find eyes within a puddle,
To stream the ripples
To your direction.
How easy it is
To drown, without realizing
I was there, too.
How simple it is
To kiss the floating corpse,
Without the soul
That merely wanted love.
And yet,
The broken heart deflated her
From living breaths,
Now to defeated sighs.
How easy it always is
To find her strewn clothes
Torn as her form,
Though not to collect them,
Still to scatter them
With arms as open
As these eyes
That were never
Removed from her cries.
Modern Romanticism 