Romance is dead.  
It's throat laid open,
love cascading down.

Murdered by progress,  
by the reduced
synaptic
span
on
constant
scroll,  
lips smacking for the next
hit of instant
gratification.

Breaking into a cold sweat
at the thought of  waiting
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
or patient endurance, and the  
reward of long fought effort.  
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  
our enlightened future.  

swipe right  
“send nudes”  
“DTF”

I look at you .. your countenance and demeneour .. how one eyes follows the other and curls of your hair address this courtship unknowingly .. and at a gaze when all at once, my eyes brush off your glance, . hiding in plain sight, what our gentle nudges couldn't hide ..

You do not say .. in fear and worry for what might, I do not ask .. illusions of my habits overcomes.. and yet, we nurture that infinitesimally small fire .. hoping meekly in our hearts .. that something or some force would cater to our reconciliation .. but it never does.

When monsters fall in love, do they leave their ways behind them?
or terrorize towns hand in hand?
Do they still open tops of buildings like giant jars of jam
with giddy smiles striking fear for miles around them?
Will they still pick planes from the sky? Or just the crust from their lover's cloudy eyes?
Do their mangled hearts become manicured?
With razor claws brushing wretched jaws,
will children hear them making out in closets?
Will they huff and puff at armies, or yell sweet nothings to pass the time?
Their passion would be fascinating, making love while making masses fear their wrath.
And maybe if we're lucky, we'll see two monsters in the park--
with lipless mouths and fighting tongues--
showing us a love so stark, it would be a first to be given hope
by such vile a folk.
For there's a chance for all of us, if even monsters fall in love.

He clears his throat,
offers a hand,
lady afloat
begging to stand...

but where is she now?
The gentleman's moon...
his strides upon Earth
whose labors to croon?

Here, gentleman, hear
her breaths are so soft.
Need this dough like skin,
a taste so aloft?

Her pulse like a symphony,
her steps on pools glistening,
her lips your night litany,
her hands light-wrought ivory.

Gentleman she swoons!
Her hips like snow dunes,
her words gentle noons
that light up your Junes.

Yet you stay away,
your respect holds sway.
Though she is nectar,
you drink not as night
does day.

Your gentle ways
lengthen the days,
though distance kept,
you oft' purvey
a sense of love,
as she turns your way.