Modern Romanticism

Dark, beneath
where the line seeps.
A frozen signature
to sign us into premature birth.
Our kisses stopped short,
our gaze faltered
on the idle highway.

Will you,
will I wait to see
what could come to be
from silence in the stars,
from pain in our bodies?

We touched,
hoping our scars would burn out,
hoping the universe
would offer fresh wounds
to see ourselves in the new moon.

Torn apart
in the accident.
We quit
without brakes needing
the foot in the door.
Our entrance
to embracing arms - 

folded us into broken bones,
forced us to swallow stones.

Lost beneath
the cold, white misery.
Numb, though tragic
when we recount our steps
taken to fall.