Come around. Link arms.
You’ll drown where we surround
inside reflections of our own masking.
We bleed for all we leave,
losing breath in all we undress
in wounds that keep opening
with limbs that are folding.
I find that we
are never jealous in each
of those pairs of eyes,
tempted throughout puddles,
reflections we might have fumbled
when we caught our hearts
from stars to ceilings.
Our breaths have leapt
to find comfort in stirring silence.
We are bandaging our flesh
in a fusion, in a confusion
for some peace beyond death.
Our skin has swept
overboard, as dust,
caught red of skylines, wilting
with coating rust.
Cremation, outside of
reverberation, telling our throats
to keep swallowing pain,
for what would release screams
when that sun runs
our debt up,
in flesh we are burning.
Modern Romanticism 