Because of our
similar motions, rowing over
feuding pathways, we have
designed each other
to capsize another,
plunging into deep-red sunsets,
reborn glances,
breathing in what drowns us,
inside those bloodstained kisses.
Half-way to trust
a lighthouse to guide us,
while being half-naked in where
we find ourselves swimming,
while we still sink,
and we are always questioning
an outcome we saw, before.
Are we ever getting there?
Building a boat.
Sinking it with holes.
Hearing a heartbeat skip
like stones, over a river –
flat, in our lack of character.
Lifeless, in what we never
accepted, for refusal
of innumerable, insufferable
disappointing endings.
Modern Romanticism 