Disappoint this every
point we dotted,
lost at every
second that we imagined
our eyes to crisscross,
painted in blue,
helpless in fullness
while our heads carry
emptied clouds,
overhead.
To compare
discolored roses to
expressions that renew –
without folding pages
at pauses,
without counting seconds
fading with petals,
ground into rusted
train tracks,
rushing a familiar sound
where heartbeats will
find their stop.
Lone motion
on weathered iron,
where blood had
changed its course.
I keep draining
with no drops ever
staining enough
for you to hold hands
to follow.
Last ticket towards
scenery leaving backwards
reflections within
what rained inside,
among hearts that coincide
a shared element.
Modern Romanticism 