Grieve awhile. Find a
smile, tied upon thin tracks.
You were always gifted
for yearnful endings.
When water ever
lifts you, I might
empty you. I will
hand you our stories,
on silver cutting boards.
A new covering. Anew
to heal, without your
setting of faceless
formations, in those white
clouds. This infinite display
of dust, upon an ocean’s
curves: it holds us.
Warm, to kneel
down, to cold waters,
while a sun never rises.
If to heal, made to steal
a moon aboard,
light will keep reuniting.
Life will stay reigniting.
Until pain depletes
us, back into recognition.
Until each grain can be
counted. When your lips
can be tasted, without salt,
without kissing our wounds.
Modern Romanticism 