Reminiscing a romantic

The romantic is ever punished with pain. Yet,'tis pain and the colour red of blood that makes the romantic.

It is to listen to the quavering tremulations of the heart. To pack your soul, and go on a leap of faith into the deep abyss of nextitude, with no rhythm or reason but, that the heart so aches.

To sell my soul to the next salesman who comes a knocking, if that is what it takes to hold you hand, and bash my heart against the petrichorous rocks of your pulchritude.

To wander with my heart on a platter, and to yield it to you. Make an element of all my energies and heartbeats, throw it to you, and trust the universe to take it yonder.

It is to believe in you, in me, in this moment - this set of events that is the now. And to seize it, to embrace it, to feel the essence of it, to resonate with it, and to make it: with it.

It is to be vulnerable. It is to be hurt. It is to take that red raw heart, make it my work of art, and birth the next moment of gladful gratitude. Mayhaps to crash again at your fort of contritude. But then to let the cosmos take my next dance, swing; whirl, and fling my soul into the next fallness of my being.

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It is to be me. To gently unsew the threads that make my congruity. And it is to make your being with you. And have you create my being with me. To kiss you, to kiss me, to kiss this infinitesimal tick.
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It is to be two coupled springs. It is to be defined in recursive dynamical equations. It is to be coupled variables in a phase space with infinite iterations.
And let everything in the universe couple itself so, if so the heart shows.

To be a romantic, is to live so. Is to ache so. Is to be so.
To be a romantic is to constantly be in this reverie of high bliss.
To be a romantic, is just to Be.

(a tribute to, inspired by, Fromistcy)(dedicated to Niv)