At the edge of a vast ocean, the quantity of water that shows both reflection of our faces and stars, the hanging lights that we see from both angles; and we are wishing for something to stretch our hands out for. Maybe when the miles were longer, we were crippled of our backs and shattered on our glass legs. Were our love able to replace the night with unending warmth, maybe then we’d not find it necessary to wake to see the sun. Maybe if we kept seeing the sun, our sleep would not be kept inside an impossible dream. To reach for the hand that stammers, though it could not be cold when we breathe a warmth to create the waves. Maybe when the tides are looser, we should have found it simpler to see one another, being carried closer to each other, finally together.
If we keep whispering for the same wish, maybe our reflection would disappear, along with the stars, the waves, the life within the breath we exit from our lips in the deepest sleep above the deepest of all oceans. If that same wish was never fulfilled, can we still wake up to see the sun as some warmth for what never was? If we keep talking in our sleep, pulling back curtains to see the night for its disappearing moonlight and starlight, maybe we will find each other in the same dream, hoping for the same warmth, the same reflection with the same ending to a nightmare that was never real.
Modern Romanticism 