eighteenth century

head hurts like after you cry
feels like it should rain outside
but there's sun outside your mind.
imprudent maybe, but inescapable.
it's gonna turn either worse or wonderful.
that's how it goes.
for safety reasons you might want to go
away somewhere i won't be there.
hertfordshire, gracechurch street
they don't mean anything anymore.
walk through dirt-shuffled air
three miles to what used to be there.
i'm not some pride-driven emma
woodhouse, no fire in my soul.
i'm just some jane bennet looking for
someone to make me whole.
i'm not giving up, letting go of these
hands keeping me alive here in the cold.
i'm still looking for that flawed
other half of me i've been told will come.
insolence in the park you see
lack of love, lack of impropriety
beneficial to all but we.
lackluster lights in the famed scene
is there love in the eighteenth century?
it's always you and its always me.
you're not some love-blinded henry crawford
with too much to give.
you're just some upright edmund bertram
who knows how to live.