Keeping here,
painted in smears,
letting go
of teardrops from a moon
whose face is that of a silver trace,
whose presence waits
for another night,
seeing me, unanswered.
Broken song.
A wail from a throat,
and in the reiterating of speech,
I repeat what I thought
was never said,
was never repeated,
was never said
when we were never wed.
It was said,
a long time ago.
A promise, upon a time
nothing but history’s footprints
were abandoned in the snow.
It wasn’t meant to be repeated,
it wasn’t meant to be erased
to do it, all over again.
Modern Romanticism 