More moments like this,
built as stretching figures,
with fingers –
letting fall all those hands
counting our figmented
limitations.
Drastic, plastic
smiles – all seeping
and connecting our mouths
from being apart. Though, we are
a flower becoming burned,
lost in desire,
roaring in our fire.
An entertaining trail,
an engraved heart
drawn as a subtle proportion,
standing out above eons,
above marks
left on floating glaciers,
and won’t we be here, forever?
Won’t we stay
to count stars in either’s eyes?
No one’s funeral,
we should attend.
No one’s wedding,
we should amend.
We are among the foulest
on bloodied earth,
nestled, dancing in between
the fog and the unseen.
Modern Romanticism 