Silent lips, draft your words
upon the fatal highway.
You were always an ear unheard,
before the direction turned
into these staying arms.
I held your whimpers, ample, –
your fevers, crystallized.
Pulling you from funerary harms
into the bowels of next love.
A tongue, the weather, comfort above
where clouds cried for you.
While the inborn kept mourning
to lessen your scorning.
I drank from your eyes, adjacent to –
those lakes that murdered you,
as I saw your pain on white
trails, in the sand, among night.
Each petal scattered
in dusty fields –
was a ruin to share in lament
to its presence, with the torment.
Whenever your cheeks deflated to sigh,
I, too, had cried.
Modern Romanticism 
Wow.
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