Another hour
to remember, to recollect
each time you swept
those pieces, overboard.
All times, we spoke
out from handfuls of dust,
you rose, to hear,
covered in rust.
Carve those miles, ashore,
blanket all traces
with faces we cannot adore.
Some kisses splash back
fates that we held intact.
Some instincts of love
never remove themselves,
from idling glaciers.
I keep roaming.
I keep combing
desert trails, to discover you
on desertion’s sails.
I hope, without a hope
that you will need me.
If you might, with ever
a greater plight, ask for aid,
I will lend it, with a heart
bleeding in a bucket of water
fastened on my worn shoulder.
To hope, with one concealed rope
that does not aim to strangulate.
To tie those hands,
to give freedom its reprimand.
We might find a home
locked where we cannot roam.
Modern Romanticism 