With weather afield,
among thoughts to shield,
buried under smiles
that were burning into an
afterthought, after we sought
a symptom of drunkenness
to linger on turbulence,
as summer’s spark in these
displaced, disgraced hearts.
All that drifts, goes on
with melting ice. Are you
fading in all those sunsets?
Dropped, like teardrops
to horizons splitting these
currents in current
moments where we count
our seconds, apart.
With held hands, we
brought lips against
our wounds, reviving what
we said were misused
sentences. Shut doors,
wandering reflections
in rooms where shadows
surround. I’ll listen
for a brief moment,
glimpsing you in echoing
sunlight that refuses
to send fright.
All that floats, like bodies
folding in those missing
pages, lost to winds,
moving on to other directions
without conscious selection,
without cause to decide
on what we can find.
Modern Romanticism 