Strain, our way
towards those bottomless
cliffs. We have held onto
tears, meant to fall,
have told our hearts to
remain unsealed,
upon that call.
A few grains stuffed away
to discover new days,
countless as all others.
We continue to fade.
Our shadows scream from
warmth, within
each other’s arms.
Blank pages.
Torment that always stirs
in those tides being blurred,
grayed, into morning
overcast. Will we
forever recall what we
never had?
Removing curtains.
Finding our bodies
sunk into mire, finding stains
set from old wounds.
Here, we weep
without ever disciplining
what must be concealed.
Buried, not revealed.
Unluckiest souls. Unlikeliest
toll, in being renewed.
Will we count those grains,
like those onward days?
Starving ourselves on all that
never went on, save for
rushing blood from
our stranded hearts.
Modern Romanticism 