Watered roots.
Misguided freefalls.
You have labelled me, enough
with everything.
Pulling you up,
while grounding me
in principle.
I write your name,
without signing it,
without ever underlining it,
since you’ll want to be rinsed
from this repetition
from echoing a purposeless,
senseless devotion.
A brief smile
comes with clouds,
decorating these arms
with thorns.
One cruel shadow
has us falling close,
while we do not repeat
that day when we
lost our silence.
Answers come in threads,
torn from reality.
We play with love, like
moving furniture.
Rearranging everything set,
like tables, like summer nights
where a sun had fallen
out of sight.
Pages of nothing remembered,
after we speak of nothing
that ever mattered.
Under curtains, within shelter,
we tell each other that
tomorrow will burn out,
our memories will fade.
Modern Romanticism 