I came here to repeat words
from a voice that tells its soulful song,
from a muted bird. I came here
to see what will never
come back to me.
Like springtime jealousies
mourning over losses
of unshaped emptiness,
of a white canvas,
of a tabula rasa gifting opportunity
for all enslaved colors.
You are a body’s length
buried, in soil, uneven
with the heartbeat of mine that goes
empty into noon.
Faltering too soon.
We are here
remaining equal,
in our promise to meet.
We are here,
hearing what little of life
is left to keep.
I came here to remember
a softness that goes
unapproached in the fall
of snowflakes, from a gray sky.
I am adjacent to frozen reflections
in once-teeming ponds, lakes,
though never oceans.
Upon oceans, I can walk on,
without ever drowning.
Upon glassy reflections,
I can stay stable, without ever
going overboard. That is me
in mirrored stars,
among those mountainous scars.
This is you, residing in sights I have seen,
though never completely believed.
I live, I love,
buried in your horizon,
in the split between an eclipse
and a beating ruby
encased in a brittle skeleton.
For those eyes, I remember.
For that skin I used to sink within,
I am a ship that crawls,
weeping with all these grains
encrusting through these fingers,
creating these same stains
I always remember.
Modern Romanticism 