Briefly letting. Staying, and
overcoming that least urge
to resubmit, though I’ll let
ourselves, be endeared
under storms, where bliss can be
wrapped around, as a bandage.
I’ll let, these eyes flutter,
casting themselves apart,
from stinging smoke.
What burned, though what’s
always avoided, in our heat?
Veins are spread, delicate,
aromatic, apart to be violent
from different horizons.
Streaking sounds,
deafening motions,
high within, repeated
sensations of remorse.
Coming clean. Coming forth,
unseen, like a ghost, like shadows
waltzing to silence, at their
guardians – the blaze,
the pain we inflict
upon bones, on marble flesh
when it gets cast
into permanent memories.
What’s left, in these spots,
those surfaces we left? When we left
each other, to be left hanging,
what does draw itself close,
or closed, like curtains,
like reminiscent eyelids,
from crippling mountaintops,
with tears that are loosened
from a pale moon?
Modern Romanticism 