I have been
watering this burning
garden, knowing little
that grief can do,
while you starve under
pressure. There, you
place rocks, around your
fate, inside a shelter,
wanting no warmth,
needing no embrace.
That mouth, those fingers
hushing words, on no tongue
that will taste a bitterness.
Here, I have taken away
all glimpses, of some sanity
I had hidden away.
We loved a little lie,
dying on that dark side
of a masked moon.
Faces with phases, combined,
telling our watching eyes,
more than our ears,
to believe in another cry.
Your turn to yearn,
for I have always listened
to stammering heartbeats,
under comforting bed sheets.
I have been watering
our garden of embers,
watching you escape into
some desperate light.
Have you ever faced an ocean
that kept our years, to its
memories, in motion?
Modern Romanticism 