Still, those blankets
are familiar with those waves,
curving at ripples, overgrowing
to weighing flesh being caught
to be motioned
at a slight breath – one that wants
to be its final. Still, we are
hurting to keep growing
these towers towards gleaming skies,
lifting all that remains familiar,
if we can keep telling lies.
Love can be at all those reused signals,
ones that resided among an ocean
that buried its glass, its mass
in reflections of red. When sunsets
were those endings to a rush,
back when we collided, back whenever
we resided in all those counted hours
stolen, like a halted spree,
like when we confided
in each other’s heartbeats.
Counted. Then, we recounted
what we disbelieved, since all that we
had, were those unfamiliar endings.
Now we are here,
keeping memories dear.
Familiar to our eyes, even if
we are telling lies upon what we want.
Another breath to push us towards death,
with one more caress to turn another page.
No studied scenario,
no repetition in a litany
could inform us of when
our eyes will no longer refill
this infinite ocean.
Modern Romanticism 