She’s used to leaving
rainfall, behind. Where there are
footprints, retained at what
kept anyone, going – she would solidify
nothing, while everything
kept itself moving.
She’s used to seeing
destruction, disease, and
all that we never were,
inside her. A heart that feels bliss,
at the red behind a kiss,
one that none of us received,
while drawn open curtains exposed
those misunderstood remedies,
those that we believed
might be her serenity.
I have been going north
to see the blue,
to find whatever might be
brand new, when the sun
has begun faltering,
beneath these defeated feet –
an ungraceful setting.
That setting
of eyedrops, dewdrops,
petals, leaves given weight,
and I am still moving
forward, for something to see,
after I have mirrored myself
on someone, on something to leave,
in peace and finality.
Modern Romanticism 