Modernism, a Rime Royal By Mfwilkie

Night's light is broken, and my silhouette must trust the moon to free itself, reveal my life—my loving him with no regret. The edges of my face do not conceal my feelings. They support a smile as real as yesterday's hope. I think Shakespeare suffered as I have suffered. I, at least recovered enough to leave you concrete details: June. The weather, between seasons. Time to party! Music—the mix in any good saloon. He came. Exuberant! Unrestrained! Hearty. If Will were here, he'd film our scenes with arty touches. How could he not. I loved him well. And he, me. ::Fade to tern, and rising swell.