What’s closer,
in the pain? A certain gleam,
resides, delicate in your eyes,
through tears
imagined to be
crystallizing these blanketing,
smothering memories.
Whatever leaves you
watered, for gardens,
for those that remain empty –
you were for liquid, to raise
only an ocean,
from within your
fertile torture.
Your wounds bury you
into your own skin.
I want to love, if love would
keep you closer
than what, keeps you stagnant,
than what, curtains you,
fading under
see-through shelter.
I want to love, if you can
continue to kiss your own hands,
never swiping tears, since tears can’t
reveal dark clouds any lower,
any closer,
while love can,
or should
raise you higher.
Modern Romanticism 