Modern Romanticism

If hope can keep us
pretending to be present,
seeing nothing but gravity
taking leaves down,
crumbling our walls –
those that have been built
on muddied, bloodied ground,

I will, too, pretend to sleep,
hearing our hearts when they weep.

Coming down, inside our graves.
Crawling around, like earthworms.
Being naked, while fighting
against infinite turns,

as we thrash in this place
where we have crashed.

We hold hands,
we are tangled in veins,
as we have been roped in, from our feet,
to be dressed in burning pages,
wrapped in heated bedsheets.

Loose, like the gravity,
while kisses are painted, everywhere,
like autumn that scorns the bloom,
having ignited in this echoing room.

Cradling the other’s head,
in gnarled hands, while reading
what the other is thinking.

We’ll remember nothing
the minute we fall asleep.