Red wine
brought forth,
from a pair of raised hands,
to a set of aged, dried lips.
Your stare never erased
its point, of no return
of what keeps me releasing
time, into your palms,
the grasp where grains
are counted, recounted,
like droplets
from a barren sky.
I retain nothing
at the slightest glimpse
of what was left,
drawn in imperfect circles.
All that is left
is a withered rose petal,
drying in your touch,
as I am all that remains
wondering how
an ocean disappears,
or if these sands will soon follow.
In great thirst,
naked upon your skin,
I reside in twisted junction.
I stabilize myself, even among absence,
even in this space,
where you are, no longer,
where waters are remembered,
hiding themselves behind curtains,
having receded behind eyelids.
Modern Romanticism 