Modern Romanticism

Beloved,

The greatest of tears

Are still yet to be spilled.

For our cries

Have created the waves

We send forth to other lands.

We have not created the lake

For both of us.

To be seated at its edge,

To see the sunset that is destined for the pledge,

For the devotion,

To bleed upon us, each ray of the coming morning

Where we fall away

To our own home, in oblivion.

We are lovers

Among the wreckage of this world’s flesh,

Where consumption, makes death,

And people’s movements,

Create breaths.

What lakes to create for us to be seated upon its edge!

Torn at the ends, like frail portraits of each other’s

Confusion.

We know what we are, though time has stopped

Upon the time I kiss your mouth,

And sugar is what we reap from the lake,

Not the salt of toil.