Romantic Writing
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He stands, to then sit. To sit, then stand, again. Restlessness has him writing a letter both upon desk and heart. A signature bends itself, over the letter, to the submissiveness of holding on. Streaks for loving smiles. Futures that can think on their own, though collapse in the rush. Of blood that reeks of
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What I didn’t die for, was what I lived for. Though, who I loved perhaps caught my attention enough to want to lay to rest myself in her arms, and never awaken. There were lies caught in her hair. I had to remove them. There was pain so golden that she held upon, in a
Modern Romanticism 