Red underline.
A teardrop that paints
an ocean, without color.
Someone has never
been at your place.
A grace, without
something to keep you
isolated, in depiction.
A beauty without
someone else’s eyes
to capture it.
A canvas. A stroke
across your cheek, to
wipe free, sadness I see.
Here, you bleed this earth
across, laying still
in stiffest memory.
Colors in all you are,
except for water in these
eyes, to filter you
to what I cannot undo.
A depiction. One raw
imitation. From white, into
something that remains
never brand new.
To jump to kiss you
will drown me within
no arms I can repeat,
as you are covered
in something else. In this
image to your lips,
each moment skips
to its next, hearing me
weep upon what
never leaves.
Modern Romanticism 