Flavors full
of all corners brought close.
Back then, those letters
were mirroring us
in deathly words. Back when
we were lost, together,
under a ceiling
that came around,
sealing us inside an envelope,
and sending us down,
holding us down,
bringing us around
to see what scars we closed,
yearning to never reopen.
We’ll be here, choosing to
ignore our rapid cries,
repeated lies
to have a token of peace
for a train, to a cliff.
A rope once closed our breaths,
then a stain opens our eyes
to something we find worthy
to keep bleeding ink for,
for words we thirst for
to keep being spoken,
sprayed over this emptiness
we’ve fallen back for,
to hear our names echoed back
as tearstained shadows.
Again, we hold,
holding closer than
all breaths ever held
onto, with lungs full of
an ocean’s water,
while we release
what we cannot fight back,
what we cannot consume,
when it’s devouring us
in our service to it.
Modern Romanticism 