Modern Romanticism

A wandering wish,
an ideal that makes one
whisper their words
through covering fog.

If I can stall
your gaze, in this mist,
perhaps I can be
whomever you've cried for,
binding our limbs,
leaving our tears
for no one to follow.

Being blessed, in service
to an anchoring ceremony.
What is love, if not
something to flood a heart
with a single droplet
of mutual devotion?

Not just you,
but the both of us
have been awaiting this,
because this kind of gift
is nothing to dismiss.

We were born beautiful,
but our eyes were always
finding door after door.
They're always solids
to move out our way.

There's never been
somewhere to keep us
imprisoned, in arms,
in eternal safety.