I keep open
books – ones that have
your eyes, your face,
a mouth that tries to speak
as it fails to breathe,
streaming crimson across a skyline,
burying light inside a heart
that falls, naked, inside crisscrossed arms.
When you limp forward,
I leave a heartbeat backwards,
stilling you, for a moment,
to believe the everything of me,
in your struggle to release.
With one life, brought against
time’s solid bones. You are
everything, to behold,
dying to live,
as I am living,
until your death.
More than a burning house,
more than heartstrings
will glimmer, when winter
heats itself up, at summer’s
hidden majesty –
when I plant a seed
for the simplest ceremony
covering love with greater love,
growing a garden of you,
with your voice among winds,
your eyes, your face
arising from all colors.
Modern Romanticism 