I choose to
conceal us, behind
curtains, mirrors,
letting shards dig in
where wounds were once
revealed, in those fires.
Smoke grows,
blanketing us in
a certain degree of
darkness. When your
lips were fruit, I chose to
take you down from a tree,
to drink from you,
my closest naivety.
I choose to
bury us, beneath fog.
Under crimson daylight,
where red lips were
torches, blood of smears
in a nighttime panic,
love continues to grow
with smoke, in this snow.
Longing to
hold you close, without
raising you, to that level
of these shapeshifting scars.
I cannot describe. As I
cannot prescribe a different
dosage, while all becomes history
without a moment of certainty.
Modern Romanticism 