Here you are
wrapped around
as idle thorns.
Breast carved as mountains,
hips curved into rivers,
veins stretched into branches
from the tree of eternity.
From Spring’s love,
you walk from Autumn into Winter,
decked in the flowers you
prevent the bitterness from collecting.
I’ll hold for as long
the walk will go on.
I’ll fade with you, rotting without
ever becoming anew.
You cling to me,
fingernails buried in me,
with eyes that see
through to eternity.
More, you desire
more for the fire,
though nothing is given
when enough is ever enough
to have gifted.
This heart, held to you,
a wreath wrapped around,
never kissed,
ever missed.
Modern Romanticism 
🖤
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