Modern Romanticism

Soft words, and
hands cut from the glass,
melted on the sand.
Wallow, we are
lifted to find each other's eyes
even in the rush of stars.
Bloodbaths, fights that do not quit
their place for eyes, cannot fit.

Alone, to shower with
the bucket, the rope tied at our feet.
Collection, a slow dance in it,
while your beauty with wings never flits.
You cry while the moon covers
an aching sun, cannot leave.

And with grief the lover's yore,
water will run, with great eyes to adore.

We have run, across
all the mingling light,
carving sentences from our sight
Speaking more than our lips,
than our hands, in each teardrop tossed.
When frost wilts the last flower,
the final petal - 

Will love remain the answer?
Nestled in, buried throughout the
grains gathered in gravity.

Pull down, run with sharp glances - 

to cut the cloth, radiant
to your stare, to ours, sharp and decadent.