Not knowing. Never sharing
uncovered scars, we are forever
buried in bleeding arms,
pondering on those
merging possibilities. Have we
felt more than a universe,
creating and recreating
stars that gleam like tears
on edges of extended flesh?
Reaching palms
want to tear free a diamond
from a measureless sky.
Though we can utter our vows,
while we eclipse the sadness,
we still stain these night-times
with disconnections
we commit, together.
Still verging towards
another edge. Still sending
our tears down bottomless slopes,
watering our dead gardens,
leaving our smiles emptied
of burning kisses.
Still swimming outward,
swallowing salt, stinging wounds
that were once fading
like dreams in a matrimonial
night of surrendering blue.
An ocean that hurries pain
in a storm brought into
ships called our arms,
cradling our stories, our skin
opened as book covers
revealing whatever we ever
hoped to conceal.
Modern Romanticism 