“I think, that when I look at the night, I can see something still so mesmerizing of color as the day. I can see nothing missing in detail, never deprived of either vividness nor shape. A flawless form; though, dead with the teardrops that fell, while in desperation, attempting to raise a garden from a small root.”
He wants to keep breathing. Even beyond the final hour, at the length of itself becoming midnight, he wants to keep interpreting the sighs between the varied length of branches in an actual garden. He wants to breathe, while the wind comes gusting in through the open window before him. Not a face. Not a footprint. Not a small detail that is lesser to the great vividness of something he had buried, though keeps still on the surface. Here, he sits, breathes aloud, playing a piano to his mourning.
Love repeats a melody. Plucking his heartstrings in unwanted, though truly desired, pain. He says, in the melancholic notes that are sliding his teardrops off, “She came crashing. As the waves that came to embrace me, though receded. My love was the forest. I kept wanting to water it, though it wanted to burn. It wanted to die with all its leaves, its pine needles, and all its countless ferns.”
Modern Romanticism 