Nothing else is able to hurt
in the smile, deprived of the stir, –
the stirring of a heart.
The blurring of a clogged
pair of eyes.
But within
where water is left,
the reservoir, kept idle
as the blue moon
fusing in the nighttime gloom.
Here, I wait for the hand
that always trembled –
in the bloom
of a love that awaited
its eternal doom.
If you can,
hurl a kiss across the sea.
I promise I will catch it,
if it will make me see.
If I could.
If wings could grow, –
I’d take you close to me,
along with the curling waves
that, along with these
folding arms,
could settle us in the dark, –
not so far apart.
In the lasting and sudden
winter of a long night,
drowned in the stains and grain,
I can breathe kisses
down your hollow throat,
never letting go.
Modern Romanticism 