Swollen lips, eyes that
trail tears for second seasons
where Autumn turns all
that never grew back,
into infertile white.
Shards from some
forsaken promise, to crawl
on your knees, sensing that
skies were oceans.
Are you open for those
arms, wide in defeated
horizons?
You sense that I will
return, with a flower to hold.
You bleed even within
your dreams. Sometimes, I will
tell you to turn back
to kiss off decay
from these lips.
When roses beg to thorns,
when hands are covered in
bruises of an apple,
your poison remains as your
reason to keep you low,
unpolished, with deep roots
that keep you under.
If love shall silence your song.
If beauty stays on this tongue,
disguising another promise
to keep you alive,
I will keep this ocean endless
for you to swim.
Modern Romanticism 