Cold stardom. Left adrift, bleeding currents
gray with the wash of afterglow.
I let you ignite, become white with the night’s
comforting fairies. Though, I will dream
without leading that stone into future steps,
not that heart that kept sinking
into puddles from these red-rimmed eyes.
No more to us, what kept merging
into firestorms – after showers that were
more than meteors, more than what
fell from Heaven’s burning skies.
Hold this discolored rose. See myself.
See the waves, rising and falling
with those lives into graves.
Hear sounds as deafening as muted steps
plodding a road backwards, before they
are ever given a direction forward,
for I live in this serenity
of a melting bridge, where I could not
ever find you waiting there.
Not one teardrop for a kiss,
nor one hand that quivers
like another leaf that needs catching.
Modern Romanticism 