I suppose,
that in this weather,
I would stay the same.
Though we were bleeding, together,
washing our hands in each other’s
unforgiving eyes,
nothing could sweep the stains,
originating from beneath your feet.
I swiped the more rain-soaked strands
from covering your face,
while I scared the demons away
from reliving your moments
you were ever away,
cowering like children do,
plagued by thoughts I thought were too
tragic, to be believed,
but believing in them, you will do,
reviving fears, residing in the cold,
until your heart grows old.
Though we were naked,
sheltered in dreams we held onto
like stars made for cradles,
we were still bleeding.
An evening, to come,
a relieving sigh, to exit
from tearstained lips
that were not meant to join.
Dipping our heads into a sunset,
finding reprieve only in what is left
among fields,
where seeds are drifting
like newness that opens newness,
like an open door that reveals another.
Modern Romanticism 