My friend,
My old friend.
Think of me as a romantic,

Though please do not consider this
A weakness or a foolhardy and
Archaic enterprise.

It is but the pursuit of each flavour
Of emotion.
To taste

Both the sticky sweetness
Of infatuation,
And the hollowed defeat

Of an impossible love.
How the pains of a misguided plea
Can cleanse you

From all of the lies and
Cynicisms you have adorned yourself with.
The life of a romantic is nothing

But freedom.
It is the freedom to be, and to relish
In each dynamism of the heart

And to feel no shame in it’s decimation
Of your activities. A romantic
Is free to sulk

And to indulge oneself
In the theatre of their heart,
To forsake all that

Does not transcend them,
And all that does not lead them
On their pilgrimage

For that consummate love.
And, my friend,
My old friend,

It is the belief in love that creates me.
It animates my limbs
Into action each morning

And motivates my heart
To keep up its business
As shadows lengthen across the ground,

In the simplistic hope that one day,
Love will appear in a wicker basket
At my doorstep.

For now, I shall remain
Studious. Though that word should
Have no real place

In a romantic’s life.
I shall read of the love that escapes
Every author,

That causes them to spill words onto a page,
Hoping that they too
Surpass all of reality

And hold true the feeling of the numinous
That causes men to weep
At their guitars

And women into their pillow.