Ah, the romantics.

And we, being they,

do find ourselves dancing

along the silvery-fine web threads

of the soulful and amorous articulation of prose,

emission of affections,

and spiritually-stirring tactility.

Many an expression go yet unfurled,

as I, being a mere, simple constructor,

have not the facility to contrive.

Dive into me,

and float thyself upon

the tender saline waters of tears

that flow from my eyes

into a secret cache of my heart, for thee,

while we are apart.

Reach for that which is reaching,

and longing, for you,

and touch.

Among the spinning

entanglement of wait

and tragedy,

entwined with the mysteries of God,

what thought was lost and never was,

nor could be,

burns a solitary ember

of "this" symbolic conception

within my breast.

I begin again at every breath,

in this dream of misty memories of thee,

my dearest.

Reborn, to a single course,

to once again find myself wrapped in thine arms,

in gentle slumber

and harmony of pulse and respiration.

During the hours of the ashen moonlight we,

in hushed whispers,

speak between caress and osculation.

To this, and with my every desire,

do I bestow these words upon thine eyes,

that they be evidence of mine most tender

of affections for thee.