I found out
that words are only markers,
or barricades,
to stall us
on this path to imperfect shelter.
We bring our lights forward,
burning in this rush,
of our faiths, tested at each step,
leaving this ground tremoring.
Our hands, held for needed moments,
to signal a disposition,
to feel this lingering side effect
to a life that only stopped
for the other,
with pauses only at reminders,
at photographs hanging in hallways
of our minds, of our journey
to reprimand any understanding
of previous loneliness.
Modern Romanticism 