Love withdraws back into the cracks from whence it came. Unfulfilled potential stands at attention like the queen's guard. Ways of squeezing the vice stamp around like trumpets made of melted diamonds. My relationship to you is encrusted with bezels made of corduroy. There was a moment to make it happen, but the moment got missed. Not by me - it wasn't my fault. But there was a recognition that could have clicked in, and that's not what happened. They eye wasn't an organ of what it was meant for by it's creator. Instead, juice began to boil inside the beauty that Romanticism yielded to a few people who are able to hold the past and the present together in the same palm.