Modern Romanticism

It is an even field, an evened space between them, or that is what’s assumed. There’s a summer’s sunlight overhead, and a thousand unseen droplets of sweat from a hundred different bodies. All of them, animals.

A choice is highlighted. One that acts out in doing what can be done to close this gap. Whispers trail through thickening winds to remind both of a promise that was made. Both must venture to the last section of their minds, depleting it of its sanity to fulfill all that has been kept to the solitude of yearning.

Is it all out of pride? Or is it out of something else, far too simple, but simple it will remain? To love, the most complex of vows, makes the lake between them, filled from the droplets of forms, be interpreted on its origins out of varying feelings. Out of fear, out of excitement, or of out utter anticipation; these bodies, the hundred of them, are all a blur. They are all from the same two that shudder like autumn leaves in the effects of withdrawal. The withdrawal of a gifted affection, received once from hands held out. At one time, it all had been a congregation of flesh upon flesh, layered over again onto itself. This made them. This has returned once more.

Always, even when apart, drunk upon the other, even when withdrawn on opposite sides of this shimmering body of water. The both of them will be drawn close together like curtains to shut out the light and bring in the darkness. Inside that darkness, being captured, lost, willfully imprisoned in it, they are able to see each other under apparent clarity. For it is only their hands when combined with their mind’s eye that allows their vision to be sufficient.

Like two tidal waves, they’ll be clashing together in one unseen display of passion. Once, they were divided under it, and now the time has come for them to connect under soft sheets. Soft sheets and a quilt like two layers of skin, like epidermis and dermis, confining them for a moment and starving them of anything else for an eternity.