Romanticism is
Melancholic at best
Always daydreaming
Each one a test

I'm a hopeless optimist,
Some may say.
Tossing petals on a silly rose,
wasting the day.

The idea of love,
So open and free
Thought provoking, mysterious
Until it gets to me.

Then I recall,
Why I prefer being alone.
It's hard to find peace,
In someone else's home.

By home, I mean mind
Two becomes one
You both have to share it
To simply enjoy the sun

Idiosyncrasies,
Start to synchronize
The way we view life
Is seen through one set of eyes

We become a machine,
Two bodies and one brain
A lovely entanglement
Loneliness has been slain.

You passed the test,
And you've set me free,
But only through binding,
The concept of 'you and me'

Romanticism is
Melancholic at best
Until the real thing comes,
And starts a fire in my chest.

Romance is dead.  
it's throat laid open
love cascading down
murdered by progress  
by the reduced
synaptic
span
on
constant
scroll  

lips licking for the next
hit of one-click
copulation

choking on the slightest
glimmer of
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
waiting,
of elegant persistence and the  
reward of enamored pursuit  
IRL.  

the beautiful cat and mouse of our ancestry  
that wove such wonderful tales  
into the bark of our trees,  
replaced by all the clever wit  
and subtle nuance of  
peak cringe riz

swipe right  
“send nudes”  
“DTF”

Please weave your
nerves along
My bones,
my marrow is
your supper.
Please wrap your
never ending
absoluteness around
My eternity,
my endlessness is
your reward.