Floating photographs,
drifting on runaway waters.
Faint, burning highlights.
Agonized slope – a glance from your forehead
to those lips a kiss had found its home,
while you found your shelter at a rope.
At a loss for hope. At a loss,
for words. At a loss for sentences,
for a sentence to replace this state
of you. I am at a loss,
with dust in all these crevices
of flesh I do not need,
with eyes that look down to bleed,
while forms have been laid
sideways, with falling rain,
with thundering hearts.
Tell me what never worked.
Tell me what more was broken
than this heart I cannot
heal, seal, nor feel.
Tell me what space I never kissed.
Beneath? Where endless grains
are connected, disconnected?
Or overhead? Where stars intersect,
could dissect us, in what we were,
losing our light into infinity?
I hold a crippled hand,
unguided, sailing on forever’s ocean,
hearing what calls in those distant storms,
releasing breath that never comes back.
To hear me, weeping sideways,
glancing at puddles, lakes that I form,
visions reflect from within me
an appearance that I foresaw
within drinking cups,
among immaculate snow.
Modern Romanticism 