Drift yourself
closer to the cliff, if you
must.
I'd love to let it rain
to wipe the scars clean
from you.
These eyes see you
wander, linger
on the edge, taking the pledge
to a certain death.
A heart will stop,
all rhythms cease
with the flow of a river
entering a lake.
Exit yourself
over the edge, if you
cannot fly.
One direction to decline,
the other to see a flood.
These eyes
are crude paintbrushes
painting this face
with scenery
you do not wish to see.
Forward, to be the grain,
infinite, in lost specks.
What bone of yours
will be unguarded, for the kiss?
I'd love to collect your dust,
your stars in the sky.
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Modern Romanticism 