What burns? What turns? A curve,
leading me to hear these breaths.
Another dive, from a wrong
exit, upon this drive over a cliff
that held a waterfall, anyways,
though any way
would have done well,
if someone as familiar
warmed a drying emptiness.
A curve. A swerve,
drunk on being lost,
content with all that can cost
this heart, at another toss
into a fountain,
a lake, an ocean where vacant seats
keep silenced, lovelorn heartbeats.
An act, where someone’s pain
can be molded into nothingness
and gain. A word, to calm
a feverish heart. What turned this key?
What answers are there to believe?
I am in everyone’s, not merely your
misunderstood understanding.
For lust, to burn,
for kisses to turn deep breaths
into hyperventilation,
with a white canvas for words,
for paint, to describe, to picture flesh
nestled into randomness,
into a sobering caress.
Modern Romanticism 