Walking beneath, between
your falling sunrise, your barren scene.
Tasting soft petals
laid upon your wrists,
forging tears into precious metals
to construct the familiar home
that never fell
towards these pacing feet.
How to love, the same to come beneath
your eyes, in the gathering storm.
This heart in the wind, this face forlorn
in seeing you collapsed near to me.
Having held you, adjacently
to the crystal dust you left
for me to count as the stars.
Without knowing your direction,
as I keep the same downpour
rushing against empty hourglasses,
withering paint at the door
you forgot to close.
Love bleeds a different color –
other than red,
other than everything dead.
Life grieves a different face
without the age that can be traced
while all things appear the same.
Keep yourself to the next tale,
for pages turned, with sunken ships sailed.
Modern Romanticism 