I can, run adrift,
distancing petals with you,
burning hope,
like with that familiar rope
we hold, tighter than hands,
and sometimes,
we did scar our hands,
treating pain as a remedy
when we were somebody.
I can always come back,
opening doors, like they were
of restored fortresses.
I can keep repeating
history’s elements
of limping flesh,
or I can
stall this approach,
raising walls, like they are
waves of an ocean
that separates our pull
through this current,
our current moment.
Are you leaving
tears, as a trail,
for my eyes to follow?
Are you holding back,
waiting for me, to crossover
from idle life
into graceful death?
Modern Romanticism 