We were stolen to
the spotlight. The grand place
where we made our mark,
where we carved our heart
into oaken frames,
a canvas of burning birch.
It was that place of heat,
that pallid gesture of
something clean
in smoke, in debris
of what our kisses turned,
under the blue sheen.
Made wilting
in the light of attention,
though our lips never mentioned
the dirt road would find marble,
a hardness upon the muddied road.
We found the sun. Gave to it
its much-needed embrace.
We wasted our life
kissing goodbye
that undying sunlight.
It glowed as a candle,
until frost was built over it.
Our ruin in the rainfall,
eyes of sapphire, with parted mouth
releasing bitterness for the stain.
Alone on the unsalvageable
grains to make the looking glass,
on a shore of tides long past.
Modern Romanticism 