We were, under these trees,
remembering. What were we doing,
listening to thudding memories?
To thoughts, being buried
in chests, under earth,
underfoot, and lost
in the undertow
of a river that keeps us
moving backwards.
We drive ourselves upstream,
pledging our naked eyes upon kisses,
smooth with the sands
where we once traced our names,
like promises onto immaculate
displays of white.
Lovers, in sight,
within their brittle embraces.
Found, in the depths
of each other’s heart.
Going under,
and losing our light
only when we black out,
carrying what we keep close,
without rebellion.
Just a haunt,
with the keen eyes, the dual faces
that keep coming around.
What keeps us conforming
to this space, above and below
rain-soaked ground?
We’ve lived like figurines –
carved, but never complete,
in vibrant sceneries where we drown.
Modern Romanticism 