Like nebulas. Like breaths
breathing out a veil,
with stars that once
covered, connected,
eye to fragile eye.
Our hopes were buildings,
brought down into dust.
Our hands were
connected, in whirlwinds,
listening to sentences
that echoed, from a
heart, lost on a bookshelf.
Those nights that I speak,
laboring to breathe,
breathing with laborious
strain, to reach you.
Something buried you
a foot more beneath six
others, that held you frozen,
among infinite rocks.
I have walked, within those
lowered eyes that fell,
with your hands.
One outstretched palm
reached for skies, that were
bordered by an expanse,
central to a lit candle
that faded, upon when
you were closed.
Modern Romanticism 