Paper-thin, worn in
the impeding night.
Your lips had strands of hair
as violin strings
to play this dirge.
A lament before the kiss
upon the rock.
Devotion, with the ocean
running from
these eyes, to my palms,
in silent prayer.
Steady me.
Will you hold me?
I was never the weight,
while you were
the anchor.
I was a simple feather, burning
of bristles, worn at the end.
An entire length, as a smile that sits
flat, as a signature
upon a flaming horizon.
I was someone who gave a circle of gold
with a name.
Folded letter, writing backwards
with a quill to lock the past.
Walking onward for the wound to heal,
for the memories to be sealed
within the next of silent hearts.
Modern Romanticism 