Modern Romanticism

I did.
I handed you the rope,
while you chewed the air
with it.
I loved, indeed
I loved, drying my tears,
licking my wounds.

Chasing tails,
sharing stares
beneath thunder and moons.
Choking on the bones
of the dead.
Was there ever enough envy?

The summer, back,
the winter, black
with snow to disguise the flowers
that were left behind
in the guided footprints.
A ghost led us - 

to a spot, with our tongues
flailing with desire.
Your head was hung
in the howling wind.
My palms were open
to catch your rain.

Death is as loose as paws
shaking the hand of punishment, - 

an agreement to foresee
no treats, no seats
in the streets where we beg
for the wind
to let us become
the dust in our eyes.