Obstacles. Orange eyes
hold us, for a pause
on this tight race onward
to no finish line.
None, we are able to
come, down to
revealing our ink
in page-less lives.
We consider. We remember
when our knots were formed.
A stop, with burning forests,
inside a bewildered gaze.
A cup of water,
drunken at this haze.
Two cupped breasts,
one beating heart that
escapes, to be pulled back
with all its marks.
Some forsaken sun
into a gathering winter’s
brittle flakes. Those were
all our decorations, before this,
before we managed our desire
inside rekindling bliss.
Our thoughts, fading in,
while I pull out
a stone, resting down upon
your careless smile.
Can you hold these hands
around your throat?
Will you sigh, or perhaps cry
when our sun comes up?
Modern Romanticism 