Caught in all that
recurring blue, dropping above
at repeated droplets of dew.
At here, are you
fading with everything left,
burning inside our drift
where our hands soar down
to sift, to lift
tears that never fell
this closely?
I’ll fall if it means to
break you, loose, while wearing
these discarded objects
we remembered, belonged to you.
For you, treasuring
what you are remembering
inside these emptied rooms,
where blankets burn
smothering bodies, close.
Fate never had
this hour left, upon our hands,
holding hands with shadows,
hearing songs that wilt,
that keep going inside our heads.
This hour that’s left,
reminds me of a dream we left
still smoldering above our heads,
asleep on that softness
where we slept.
Here, our gift of death
still believes in what burns,
our breath that chimes a nearest
note from a dying tree.
There, what we keep holding
being an hour of all moments
that we stole from
a negligent universe.
Modern Romanticism 