Heaven’s voice
fills your lungs
with something other
than smoke,
with something
other than those tears,
as it must be
that you are healing
apart from the one,
the embittered one
who held your throat
in vaporous kisses.
We disappeared,
together, as we withered
like petals that divorce
their towers, their stems,
into becoming fevers,
as if we shouted at the sun
for a different kind of warmth.
We wanted to lean back
to embrace stars.
We wanted to see something new
flowing from open wounds,
but we were careless
to see what was beneath the moon,
being everything old,
all things cold.
You are gone,
knowing something more,
beyond the drift
we satiated our thirsts over,
leaving smiles in the dust,
leaving growth
covered in rust.
Modern Romanticism 