the idle of romantic hands

A part of me has died. It was the part that tried. The part on which love relied. The part which for joy had cried. The part to which my dreams had lied. Warm dry hands of romance, content soul of slow dance, the truest heart needs one chance, and loyal eyes not one glance, all are lost from what fate grants. Done with the emotions, a life goes through the motions, void of foolish notions of love.