The better we are, without leaning into
a moment undressed in the tattered wild
of our minds. Listen to those crows.
Do they know something?
Another injury
to count against the reflection
of what we share, consciously.
Love holds roses, bleak and barren,
dried without tears to water them,
because we stood on clouds,
hoping we were falling
for nothing better.
Nothing better than all those
counted seconds, wasted moments
stolen for another taste
of a memory we cannot erase.
The better we are to still rush,
though never touch. The better
that we can hold,
though never scold
at the scalding hot burn
of our razor-blade fingertips.
I speak gently
to your heart, repeating this,
speaking what has been said upon
other avenues where we were lost.
Leaving our light in the dark,
hoping that bruises become clarity.
Nothing better than
everything that we forfeited
to become brief serenity.
Modern Romanticism 