If those stars can be counted,
with the melting candles
baring their relit wicks with
our hearts repeatedly beating
for no other excuse, no other reason
that wind will only move us
to each other’s arms,
as we kiss, beyond our shells,
beyond our warming Hell.
If our eyes can be found,
let us know no sound
other than rhythms heard
deep in an ocean, brought down
from a capsized pair
of abandoned ships.
If lessons are yet to be learned,
reveal what we have found.
If lighthouses were too dark to spot,
we’ll wave our white flags,
hoping those stars will find us,
or the wind will lead us
while we glide on the wreckage
of our sickened flesh.
Land on those shores, in those
cradling arms. Never yearning
for more, for anything other
than a close moment in your,
your wings that soar.
Stay in those arms. Within what
still rocks, though never sinks.
Within a space that does not
ever find its edge to a brink,
nor ever looks down.
Modern Romanticism 