Modern Romanticism

In this abyss
of a watering moment,
I am pulling
at what keeps guessing
when it keeps pushing me
to keep her open.
I am pulling closer,
though she remains far,
enough to disbelieve
where her roots extend.

I want her to roam
not from east to west,
though to a subtle north
to begin sensing
a hidden, time-worn sensation
deserted to a disheartened chest
that loves, without thinking.

In passion, in divine
misunderstandings, we are
pursuing a talent,
an appetite to fulfill us
in untold presence,
within unawareness
to shifting surroundings.

With ropes to bind,
ideas to find, given to mind
where pleasure can match
a second to be cradled
in everything we might forget,
with nothing to recall.