When leaves blow
as eyes clear, it doesn’t snow
within familiar turbulence.
For we are handheld,
we are born to meld
while steering our panic elsewhere,
hearing comforting heartbeats
ceasing for mere seconds,
playing back what we know.
A lifetime of hearing each other
speaking those same words,
though reentered in textual numbers,
backwards. Who knew that Heaven
can misplace a couple of angels?
For Hell, with its warmth,
for suffering in all its crudeness
can keep us connected –
through a sickness, through sickness,
with betterment, becoming worse
while drowned in tearstains.
Are you hearing me?
A lifetime of faintness,
a pulsation within a throat –
one we kissed, one that we missed
when time hangs on for mere moments,
as we are counting hours,
playing backwards
those tracks, buried within snow.
I am answering you,
and I’ll never leave you
sheltered, in Heaven’s stagnant shadow.
I want you
to keep, to one day leave
your eyes wide open,
and notice me,
with those words
never reenter themselves
within ripples inside puddles,
nor trickles
from melted snow.
Modern Romanticism 