Honestly, this is one of the very few "romantic poems" I have written. I tend more toward musings about nature and music, etc. But now and then I like to imagine a story, a scene, or a character, and depict it in verse. This is not an expression of any personal heartbreak in my life. I don't do romance as a matter of preference. I was just being imaginative and clever (or so I thought).
How coldly warm, her slender arm
On mine. So is her smile, between
The acts. I hate and love her charm,
Her gentle wit and graceful sheen.
I hate that lovely guileless face
Who baits the groom but won’t play bride:
This saint who calculates disgrace,
This waif who harbors homicide.
Her pulse beats firm beneath the notes,
Both chilling and enflaming me;
Were this a score from Berlioz,
Even the stage were mocking me.