Mishandling the melody. The memory
of us, burning undercover, in those shadows,
infiltrating – stepping towards a future
we painted, then we tainted our road with snow
with tracks we could not retrace,
within warmth where we
were unable to embrace, deep under
covers both black and blue,
in an ocean of a nestled two.
Twin’s hearts longing in the long
stretches of feverish sunrises,
brittle blooms that ignite for eyes, forever
before falling back into their doom.
Cherish this, but disperse this,
these faces that are kissing twisted reflections,
weeping in that same selection
of where we choose to sleep.
A canvas, engrained. A winter, saturated
in innumerable evening’s pain,
a memorable, forgettable painting
with a frame disconnecting us from saving
watercolor to remaining oil and water:
separating our union,
revealing that underlying snow
with no tracks to gift opportunity
to step back.
Are you ever able to hurt,
without hurting back? Am I ever
able to burn, without burning one more
match that burns evidence,
though not the severance,
and never the fatal imminence?
Modern Romanticism 