Modern Romanticism

In each other’s eyes,
for each other’s cries,
within each other’s sighs
disappearing into
afternoon storms.
Drifting above,
falling below.
Winter has ever been
that glacier moving slow.

An inborn slip
to one lying tongue,
as I had to console
that one who took a toll
to breathe, before she sold
her heart, from
a hundred folds, in one
book of promises.

One hundred pauses,
one more break to see
what refuses to believe
in one more ocean,
one more distance to cross.

To see our smoke, our fog
lifting while drifting
our reflections, outward,
stemming from inward.

We breathe upon mirrors
to see signatures, already
written. Breathing to blind
those lights, of thunder
where we never connect.