Burn the taste of us away
down your engulfed throat,
while fate can be realigned
a different way
than whatever we realized
was the right way
to keep forever our day.
While your terminal eyes are there
to keep me cold, to keep me
forever old, let me hold hope
like a book set aflame,
like a pair of curtains
closed if only to blame
those it did not name.
A list of secrets. An arrangement
of wounds, of those
that were never let go,
while I kiss your mouth open
to hear your dreaming sighs,
to fear your clouded skies.
I live only a different temperature
away. Among an alien summer
you sent away. I falter
when leaning to get close,
too close to what you let loose
from autumn trees.
Grave-like beauty
in your adorning smile,
I give flame to everything
you bite away.
Modern Romanticism 