Stir the eyes.
Travel in
froth, for idle bathing.
Mask the senses in
with the memory of your kiss.
I have receded from being
against the shore,
where the sun came to me
as a rose.
I kept bleeding.
I have kept backing
from wall to wall.
A child from a mother’s hip,
scrawling senseless
wording to blank spaces,
timeless voids
where you used to belong.
I always wished
to rewrite your name
on the emptied lids
for eyes looking backwards.
I kept painting
dead petals back to red
in the cooling springtime,
among transparent sunshine.
To bring you back
will cost Heaven
to burn blackened.
In grief and in disbelief,
a broken faith on currents swayed
only for the road that leads me
to the sun I cannot see.
Modern Romanticism 