Stones keep
those words down
on your rewritten heart.
A draft lost to wind,
with eyes lost to space
when tracing our forms
split among a field.
Volcanic behavior
cannot ever savor
those blue moments
we understood
what we were meant for,
buried under clouds.
Meant for memory
that will always last,
beneath overcast
We fall to see
past funerals, where we
will discover sleep.
Love reiterates, upon
white dresses, white paper
those words that repeat
answers for defeat.
Lost place in a curtain,
last space to settle
teardrops in a delicate
fabric to keep us
unanswered in speech
for life we leeched.
Modern Romanticism 