All of this
has a black ceiling.
Your arms, curved shadows.
Your shaped scars,
straight, to that moment
when you sentenced me to
death – of your oceans,
blinded underwater,
to keep darkening.
Never shallow
me. Never wallow
with me, while
moons drift.
A series of
reflections, from different
phases in this
place of bitterness.
I will never remove
these portraits from that
delicate background. What
rises, from straight lines?
I will remain trapped
in a moment that went too soon,
in a memory
that kept us, inside,
in backwards bloom.
Caresses. Notes of grief,
cries from this dark shelter,
faced with disbelief.
Loving until a sun goes down
to evaporate, to terminate
an ocean, a droplet of rain.
Modern Romanticism 