If I spoke
crisp words to delicate ears,
as though dropping
rainfall into deafness,
would she take to the whimper
or the whisper, in return?
If I wrote Freezing lines
upon the snow,
where would she go
if such were signals,
if such were directions?
Hold her,
not to scold her.
Take her,
not to ever break her.
Tears are loosened leaves
to make the trail.
Fingers run across her lips,
seeking an answer.
Wake these eyes,
her cries
have kept her dead,
for a while.
When I should kiss,
will she smile?
Grace, exhausted space.
Sentences sent down her throat
to where her sentence
brought her in
a cell within
unneeded Hell.
Modern Romanticism 