Blame the weather. Burn forever.
Reread the letters that held
repeated promises, though we were not,
as we cannot remain together.
A final word. A desperate hope,
left on a pile of broken,
wept aside memories.
Reword nothing. Repair something
within our sickened, feverish hearts.
Change everything. If someone
ever said we were two children
in a crowded room, listening
while smiling to a tune that kept drumming –
they witnessed what we did not know,
because we did not watch the snow
melt on our enraged eyes.
What kept us close, bleeding
under storms, within puddles
seeing the same thing in bottomless
reflections? We were two flowers,
drowning ourselves into growth,
inside the sadness of our
storming hearts.
We wanted
what we instead regretted,
folding pages into consoling bedsheets,
hiding under promises –
those that were never cleaned,
having been dirtied, soiled,
staying buried,
even though hearts kept beating
under tombstones left there,
dragged into infinity.
Modern Romanticism 