Shower taken, blowing smoke
for another breath caught in the light.
You shimmer in the fear,
waiting for the rain, the tears.
I realized how love dries when eyes spoke,
disrobed to the phantom nights –
revealed with the glimmering frights
in gestures, with the weather
that sheds your wings with frozen feathers.
When the snow stops, will you cry
even when I reenter you?
To the last strand from your idle tresses,
there is enough to live for.
To the many spots to leave a caress,
there is more to die for.
Are there heartbeats heard at the door?
Will your soul remain to carpet the floor?
Where have your distractions led you,
even when you linger, –
surrounding this world in nothing new?
I will take the rope.
For breaths to rush, to tug at hope.
Modern Romanticism 