Love walks. She walks. Or, she had walked, and now she lays. Upon a back with eyes to a ceiling. Her ceiling. Her mind with walls and the drawn-in above. A world of hers, this Lisa, who can smile without sincerity. Radiance makes its way over her skin, masking something more than this. A belief she holds, that she keeps in disbelief. A denial, a saturation of her mind by something so entitled. Something so wanting to believe she cannot be this neglected. By a man, no less, because a man’s cruelty comes as common as dirt. To a woman, a man’s cruelty in love is simply unexpected. Simple to be unexpected, for she heard his honesty without question.
A woman questions no man’s honesty. A woman hears what she wants to hear, to then accept it. For what makes her smarter than any man? It is that the stains of her heart, are gotten used to, while she understands that to be a woman means to be used.
Wrong love uses a woman, comprehends her body as a place for a sad man’s discovery. His fingers are her rot. His ideals are her reveals.
Though, upon her back, with her eyes closed, and a pair of fingers between pillars of ivory, there can be lost sensation entering upon the shoreline. There can be a lost moment returning to trail itself in the leaves, of whatever Autumn sought to felled them. There can be the scent of a loosened body, riding waters like the wax of bleeding candles. She leaves lakes beneath herself, as clear as the ocean without the sky. Wax melts off her fingers, while she sails. She wails with her mouth opened into a circle. Her tears come collapsing to her cheeks. Her grief, such a stain that has a deepened spot in a heart that beats at its fastest rhythm. Blood runs, though it is cold.
Modern Romanticism 