Unfolding with unspoken words,
our tangled cliche emerges, then,
barely breaching the tenuous fords
that are both definite and intangible.

As weak strands of sunlight break,
eclipsed by florescent lights,
we’re in a contest, unwilling to partake
for covers are not meant to be judged.

This is my England, void of threats,
yet my eyes yearn across the Channel -
Darnay, you may be, but I am bereft
Of the golden hair that rises and curls.

Our feet lead a meticulous dance yet we are sitting still,
abstractedly tracing silences, pauses.
Like Darcy, allow me to tell you, still,
How much I ardently admire and love you.

Closed doors are not meant to be bared
And this one is definitely shut,
Let the tenebrous ravens oppress and be shared, for
I want to be your Lenore.

And in the end, no matter what I construe,
we cannot neglect the fact that you are just a boy across the aisle
fallaciously juxtaposed with a girl who avoids you.