For you, I will remain
holding your hand
in growth, in sickness,
beside a bed decorated
in blanketing shadows.
You surround, as contours
to reflective puddles
brought down for my feet
to dance upon,
to catch a newest drizzle
from sobbing eyes.
I hold your rain in my heart,
your hand, even when
we are realms apart.
I embed your stains like black puddles
within rivers, where grief comes up
to remember what never stopped.
I will grow your name in a garden
from bleak ink, from thunderclouds.
I will tend to each petal,
tasting dewdrops from leaves
turning bright after you leave
like a storm, one that showers
to keep highlighting
all these crystalline words
on immaculate looseleaf.
You find shelter in darkness,
while I embrace your rays.
In this heart of hearts,
I am half a king,
when his queen goes missing.
I remain reflected
in a puddle where oars
keep me rowing. While skies
keep snowing, I am moving
always into your palms,
always towards your stars.
Modern Romanticism 