High tides,
white sails turn into
depictions of love turned
to something with depth,
though breath
remains absent.
A pair of wings
are yours to soar,
high above, while I
float or sink
at this fatal brink,
losing that vision
we both shared
through a pair of
blind eyes.
Someone tells our tragedy
to review itself,
as we long to hope
for another day
to play itself,
writing answers to our eyes,
layering tears on our souls,
letting rain come
in heavy heaps.
Similarities rush,
though we will not
toll our sounds to an end,
grieving into disarray.
I want winter
to name us into crudities,
listless, while soundless,
motioning our ships
ever onward.
Cold hands,
forceful deprivations,
though we’ll help ourselves
to another, believing in another,
hoping that our other half
can remain blank.
Modern Romanticism 