For more than a minute,
I will cart forth this worth.
For what I will lose,
I will lose more, if I can
keep her heart moving.
If meaning to turn to dust,
I will disallow her value
to become something discarded,
in its rust. She will fend for life,
in her sickness. As a witness, I can
hold her where she stands.
A letter in a bottle. A secret,
a guess that follows after
other details I might have missed,
drowning under that same kiss.
A breath to gush towards horizons,
promises to brand, towards another
land. I find that she will
act outside of her will.
I find that through her fear,
she will give into oceans,
into tears. If I will, if I can,
love will mend
her aching hands.
Modern Romanticism 