Love, romance, cliches, eye glancing, smiles and giggles. They live outside poetry and romance novels. Lovers exist. Hand holding, moonlight silver glow, that glitters off from objects on earth. Sensations in moods from the emotions hiding in essence. Forming itself in personal illumination.
Tingling from taking notice,
sacred to poets, altered hearts,
going beyond material success,
disregarding a world and it’s
self-made reality, forming a new.
Not sparked from philosophers. No symbols. No global revolution. But a conviction that a soulmate does not belong in poem, nor any other romantic art. Neither in the cosmos or some sort of parallel world. Forgetting dreams. Murdering fears and insecurities.  
Perhaps in embellishing in the romantic arts,
I had snorted magic, rather than man made narcotics.
Salt on rebirth, willing not to give up, on my personal
belief that love exist within this world.
(knowledge variable)