It wasn’t always
that you were adrift,
being lost, in a mother’s womb,
seeking darkness, for your thumb,
desperate for that embrace
where love can boil,
can be foiled,
or can rope you in
with everything to grant you.
Simplistic, within.
To kisses, with sweat
running from half-opened eyes,
while lips trace over
scars, repeated in lines
for signatures, rewritten,
and never erased,
when you see
where the smile drowns you.
A comprehension of falsehood,
abandoned to those floods,
as I pulled you in,
gifting you everything,
from within.
To give sound, to your speechlessness,
to grant expectation, to your surprise
would not, could not
kill, what’s leftover,
from those who claim comparison
to me, always outside of you,
always outside, from me to you.
Retold stories, deeper than
what I could fill, from within me,
for inside, of you.
Modern Romanticism 