I can forgive oceans
for letting you in, high upon
brokenness, though nothing of
some careless emptiness,
after I have sensed
your approach.
Your breath
teems beneath
forgotten sunsets,
with that same scarred hand
to hold, with this familiar pain
to scold in our identical,
perfume of temperature.
Are you ever feeling wanted?
I am just the same,
uncovered in these lowered clouds,
where grief gently falls
on our lips,
giving sweet or bitter tastes
to our tongues, tangled in
spring or winter.
I want to continue this journey
in exhuming a love
we both thought had died,
though had been merely
beating the lid of a coffin,
as the sounds of a heartbeat,
accompanying emptying sighs
sending dandelion seeds
to distant and
rediscovered territories.
Modern Romanticism 