Soft, sinking fidelity.
Wait, until we
open gifts. Words are
a disease to devotion,
are those bottles
lost on an ocean.
Thoughts to build
ships, to never abandon,
never skip over
heartbeats, over folds
in bedsheets. For I will
hold you behind curtains,
when a storm crosses,
keep you needed
in bleeding burial.
Move those rivers
through veins that
never grow old.
I have carved you
out of naked ruins.
Undress all that.
Caress all that
must never break.
Twin eyes, upon twin’s
sighs. Living in our
belonging. Safe, within
our uncovering.
Suppress these shadows.
Helpless flesh
escaping under
serpentine arms.
If we will
lose our heat.
Take what will
continue to bleed.
Modern Romanticism 