Change your scenery. Neither of our sickness,
not a hand, held upon an open, bruised heart
could have quickened us with its pace.
We were steppingstones, healing if only
to be torn, flooded, with the dam
we held back or broke open,
as perhaps doors should stay closed
when we step out, after we cry
for another time in hearing our echoes.
I loved with a wilderness of direction,
being lost either in your arms
or in your eyes. I thought every tidal wave
would find its way around us,
I thought that all deafening sounds
had never been our screams.
I thought that those thuds
were more trees being felled,
not our bodies collapsing
with our hearts being dissected.
We followed an open casket,
we should keep our eyes closed,
blinded by another ray of hope.
Blinded, though not lost
as we find our way around each other,
healing under a new moon.
Modern Romanticism 