Teardrops were not the cascade,
Not the storm to be showered,
While love’s own fertile fields
Call for us both
To dance.
Placing flowers in your hair,
A scent through each strand.
Leaning to kiss
Each finger of yours
That reaches,
Though finds no light.
Pulling you in
Apart from the faces of the moon,
From the facades of many
You thought were one.
Swallow whole this truth,
Laid in your hand.
Your wearied, tearstained cheeks,
The whitest snow
As your curtaining flesh.
For a drop, for a kiss
To melt your arctic into bliss,
Those fissures, these scars
Will spring up summer gardens.
Hope sets you free,
A yearning lover
Never, any longer
Apart from me.
Modern Romanticism 
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