Long notes. Senseless promises.
We are a year too old,
folding our scars in each other’s arms.
A sunset, left upon lips
that are dried in an absence
of what time had skipped.
All those letters. Every tear
we dig up, we hand back
like feathers to a naked bird.
Lost trail. Swayed eyes
to another path outside of
everything we cried after.
Once to present gifts
made of each other’s heart,
and once to hear our pain
ring like song from each grain
upon a diseased shoreline.
Cupping a warmer winter,
to hope for a spring when we
might be sick. Might we be sick?
Whenever our heartbeats collapse,
we are never a rapid timelapse,
seeing memories pass as
leaves in a drifting autumn.
When we are kissing
each other’s palms,
we reunite under heaviest rainfall,
deep inside a burdening call.
To love, we had lasted,
as to our graves, we are casted
as both needless oars
or tossed stones
inside a melted sea
where we had kept on,
in sweetest grief.
Modern Romanticism 