Who says, when time ceases,
we are in love, in arms, under sheets,
breathing again? Will we
continue to weep, even when we
are lost in another’s heat,
as if cold has failed to remind us
of a love this old?
Grayed smears, formless tears
peddling disused wares across
cheeks that have been left
without their kiss, without knowledge
of where our loves are being journeyed
across a dark room,
into earthen doom, upon
moments that have collapsed
into eternal comparison.
Our scars, opened, never closed,
and in hearing our heartbeats
thundering at distant storms,
we were born for never knowing
when skies will close,
after we have been taken.
To possessions, brought forth
into obsession. Wondering at what
we can break apart, we can fold
and make into something new,
to be a thing we cannot recall
can be anything to make us fall.
Modern Romanticism 