At whose presence? Was he to live? Was he to stay living? For a woman born, and also scorned. She was left to a place, inside fatal ruins, becoming and living for that fatality. He came through, entered through, and brought forth all he could not leave for merely himself. A promise. A gift. Some notion, an answer, for safety that became transparent, held in an undertow, and brought into her dimming hands. To himself, a puddle of rancid water. To her, for her, a stream of gleaming, ruby wine. As red as through bitterness that decorated her life, for he identified with a struggle he had nothing to do with. Though, to become part of it, to be merged in all its confusion, made him central to her benefit. She longed, while he stretched his long arms to take hold and bring close what she simply kept confined.
All that ran from her eyes, puddling around her feet and devouring her stance; to it, he mentioned it, aloud, in words that carried across through those ruins of her soul, “I fled what could have been forever my home. A place, I once found comfort in, and I could have remained there. Although, in that realm, I would lose nothing. Inside of it, I cannot have found myself to be living.”
To her eyes, he found himself identified. He says this, with a gesture to her chin to raise it higher to his stare, his glance that glimmers within view of a thin rays of light from a penetrating sun, “We are both surviving. Surviving for something. Who comes first, might I ask, to be that one, first in line, to love, to seek, and to cherish?”
She did not hear him. However, she saw him. A man whose mind reveals being irreversible to come ever closer to what he, in this convolution, this volatile mode of direction, and who has constructed this maddening den of heartbeats; and for that sight, she expressed her language, “Love has me remembering, not wanting. I cannot endeavor to hear you, after I have seen you. You have come from somewhere far, not someplace that had been close.”
Here are two roses left to drift, to sway and to dance in unpredictable winds. Should a storm develop about their desolate and embracing forms, they’ll try not to cry. They’ll bite down on their flesh, if it means to keep themselves from weeping. If desperation fuels their touch, they’ll touch all the more if to know more about why they’ve become the waves of oceans that feud with each other over the tallest wave. Over the most rapid of tides, or over the smallest of messages that are left inside bottles, written with words motivated by intoxicating transparency and solacing honesty.
Modern Romanticism 