Why have you? Walking in
puddles, creating circles with your
feet in the halo of retreat.
Wading in a heart. Talking in
circles that seal the lines, the open
wounds, the scars.
Sealing the center, the spot
where we both never mattered –
in the moment of believing
our eyes were seeing the same.
In the moment of finding
fog for dreams,
there is the light that holds hope
in the dust of night’s unwinding
of our burial, with the rope.
Why did you? Sifting within
the dust, collected as stars.
When will you? Minding me,
finding me, mending me,
as the pain drips from the wounds,
as the stains set, greater than kisses
in puddles where we wept.
Holding hope. Wielding the rope
tugging at the neck, the head that
with the weight of a collection
of heaven’s petals,
is never lost in our dreams,
our screams, our nightmare
in this blame of loosened seams.
Modern Romanticism 