Each teardrop on a salted road,
counted, as if to ice it will become.
To an ocean – they were meant to be swallowed,
among all pain that could not have been
this weak, that hollow.
Stains upon these hands,
grafted, where all that had been held
has been released onto endless lands.
We are explored, you and I,
to all brinks of discovered lies.
For us, to nestle, in between
where we must hide.
Deep-red petals, burned,
upon a forehead, for a fever.
Moonlit teardrops emptied into
an ocean, that ocean,
where our wings always failed
to be flown,
like our sails
drifting an unmanned
vessel, like inside our veins
where nothing moves –
for inside death’s embrace,
we are covered in kisses,
we are uncovered from
each of Heaven’s starlit blisses.
Modern Romanticism 