Dirtied rose painted by misfortune.
A sun and a moon between the
stained clouds, –
brandishing their discontent,
watching from afar,
loving from a distance.
I kept holding while you wept,
slipping from the tears in your hands.
Your tragic eyes
saw the skies,
while I waited for the
burning caress,
closest to the comfort of
a morning.
Standing or sitting.
Never laying near your grave.
While these eyes viewed each path
go on ahead, as this was as close
as I could get.
Not your hand, not your skin
ever rubbed against mine –
like the way you embrace the earth,
as though begging me to return
to your side.
Modern Romanticism 