One walk towards
a lover’s heart bending
backwards for a fall,
has her praying beneath
destruction, where it comes
more from lips over
eyes, that weep.
There are pieces
reflecting backward in
this mirror of
naked, torn skin.
Living in deprivation,
depriving in resignation
when smiles are lifting
rocks inside a throat.
Seeing you in smears,
lessening your memory
in bold, clear tears.
Wherever to follow
your clouds, high above,
I sense you within
identical pages of history.
Blotches upon white,
with witnesses in sight.
There are never enough
ruins to stuff
back inside crude emptiness,
where loves wakes
to hide back beneath
ice-cold bedsheets.
Modern Romanticism 