I crave an old romantic, poetic love
Of broken chimes and crushed foxgloves
Of coffee stains upon the table,
And early light slipping through the window
Of shuttered eyes and tired hearts,
Of hopeful lies and ancient arts,
A love sweet off wild honey,
And of fresh bread and melancholy
Of battle wounds and salty tears,
Of lasting throughout the years,
Of endings bitter and yet cathartic
Of weathering an endless arctic,
And love with a thread-bare string,
A wish, a tender, tethered thing,
I crave an old romantic notion
Of tested, sure emotion
And love, that which does not age,
Manifests so easy, off the page.