Speak. Send a word. Float
before irises are caught
in springtime’s adjacency.
Next to winter’s cruelty
where love rows
memories, through glaciers,
I’ll keep gravity
as close as these tears,
bleeding for years.
One kiss, barren, for fertile
soil. Lay your eyes to
depths of your lovelorn soul,
to stir your sands skyward.
One word, becoming two,
before infinity rushes in
to adopt commitment within
these enveloping gulfs.
I want nothing more. Nothing else
than your tears to lose its
unforgiving moonlight. I want
Hell, to bring us a different warmth,
other than what turns us
after it burns us.
Nothing else glimpses us
in these years, of burning these
repeating paragraphs
of everything unfulfilled,
yet mattering.
Modern Romanticism 