Grave talk. Each sentence comes to a stop,
though that last drop is caught
with the rising well where a heart
floats like an adorned bandage,
waits for no one’s thirst, for someone else
to find how worse came to be worse.
You’ll give muted voice.
Shouting with lungs
shattered, from your desperate yearning.
I have what you feel, trapped inside
where we both recognize
our letters, written to misspell
our names at their end,
because all endings are looming
to close our covers,
like bedsheets to fold over
our eyes like storms that were
always here.
Death’s chattering, with the loud sounds
of shattered life, going blue.
Though, it’s a consolation,
within the resignation of words,
promises never kept,
until both of us have slept.
Imagine letters being typed out
on an immaculate heart,
one that we haven’t ever seen,
nor will ever gift words.
Stare at a blank ceiling
that none of us have painted.
A canvas for no color,
when much of it is dark.
Inside that well, you’re still falling
with me, within me, inside of me,
lifting curtain after faded curtain,
hoping you aren’t buried alive
to shed that last drop
that isn’t yours.
Modern Romanticism 