Masterful to tell. Another head to roll,
another chance to take, before drifting off
without those symptoms we clutched upon,
sick and always comforted, in our fever,
in our warmth. What lies are we telling?
What enemies are we escaping from
when we are turning into corners?
Culling our own herd. Lessening the approach,
the tears that fall from burning hands,
caught under that same paranoid gaze.
The number of times we were scared,
holding our doubts under umbrellas.
The number of times we wished
for a kiss to return, as if all stars
faded in the thickening blackness,
the number of open wounds
where we kept wallowing, like tunnels
where we kept hiding.
Darkness has told our story
over years of infertile decay.
I want our love to never dissolve
from its ever-expanding shape.
I want our eyes to keep seeing
what cannot ever be discarded.
Those lights are here. They have
stayed, like stone statues to guard us.
They have waited, they have
been impatient, to guide us,
to make our promises solid
like the rocks we dance around.
Modern Romanticism 