Off a cliff. Caught
adrift, on the slope,
burning for the fuel
that poured into this love.
Sad state. Running with black
tar, from eyes not looking back.
You keep crying
for the mile, behind us.
Summer left us.
Winter dresses you
in white frost, a canvas.
Black, running water
from your eyes that see
nothingness in both
sides of a blurred coin.
Gentlest touch.
A finger to hush your screams, –
it was the night you wanted,
the daylight you yearned for
under the covers that block you,
conceal your history.
Who am I to know you?
Our love is too thin,
our words, too safe.
Our love, too thin. Our light,
too dim, with the surrounding fog
pushed into a black coating
by the ink we spilled,
the vocabulary
we released.
And who else will catch you
while your eyes are running
back to the beginning?
Modern Romanticism 