Romantic

Isn't it romantic how the chrysalids land on the ice cubes in our drink to wink with sunlight and time for the dawning double blind Isn't it romantic how wings unborn are worn to be torn from our aesthetic interpretation Isn't it romantic that we should be so kind as to blind as to bind each other belieing bespeak betraying Isn't it romantic that we should drink such potion to spite foreknowledge of death innate insecurity feigning Isn't it romantic how the oils shift smudge to smear coupling seething suppling searing precious delicate contours How I miss your words tender as tobacco upon mine morning, mourning throat how I miss your voice stillborn butterflies in the ears of compassion unsettling clouds dim-lit dawning drawing painting... But how the butterflies defy and fly how the butterflies in the face of formal whims and wanton whys cry Isn't it romantic that we could be so superficial, civil in lovingly lavish clasp 'lusive grasp Isn't it romantic that we were so resolute in absolute pressing persuasion and parched for passion that we might seek such vision of void head-long and strong that we might belong The chrysalids are daimon diamonds The chrysalids are daimon diamonds Isn't it romantic?