If our love
was not the candle, undying
in the fog of a day
we shared cups of tears,
wine from our veins,
we will be rebuilding
the sinking vessel.
One buried look
in the eyes that give off
exact radiances, with the sun
I can part from, without
glancing back.
If our love never was,
I could dream, to envision,
even without your oars
to move this life.
I could, though I’d not
with the pulled-over warmth
of your skin in the cold.
With ice, to tap into the water
of a heart, frozen in the stagnant
view for portraiture, –
frozen in unifying moments
where your flesh remains the softness
upon isolated Hell,
where the water a heart floats
would sink,
in its arctic storms.
Modern Romanticism 