Trade-off. Pay what
keeps our hearts empty.
Loss, with trivial costs,
light in a fervent blight
while we rediscover secrets
engrained in lone memory.
All those moments, half-
drowned under whole
moons. We prayed, down under
filthy weather, engendered
in surrender. One more
moment to reconsider
those sunrises. Were they
our answer, or our cancer?
Those thousand embers,
these hundred glimpses
we felt our arms, this tender
in one memory. One time
when we felt those
bricks fall down. We were
buried, in those skies.
Under our weather. Burning
in one translucent stare.
An open wound. Our open
ground that keeps quaking.
Memories behave like wilted
flowers that are not collected
down to that final dry petal.
Modern Romanticism 