I’ll hold.
Hold your head close.
Under these waves,
where stars burn down.
All those symptoms.
Synonymous.
With the shot that occurs.
In the dark. In the dark.
Under our hearts,
where waters have come down.
Crashing in the dark.
Crashing against us,
devoted while apart.
We have held.
Our oceans are never one.
With sands that fill around,
hourglasses and empty sound.
Time is a grain in,
with a speck of salt
caught in our eyes.
Free to reign.
Free, within pain.
Our closeness is a timelapse,
rewinding our growing sceneries.
All those hopes come clashing.
Our waves are crashing.
Fading among stars.
Fading, when oceans apart.
Parted. Part us.
For a single walk.
For a lonely talk.
To anchors, we are steady.
To oars, we are rowing
with aching arms.
An embrace. An escape.
Leaving our hopes
smooth as ripples,
communicating
with every vessel.
Each vein that translates
our transparency.
From oceans to murk.
From murk
to clear confessions.
Modern Romanticism 