Modern Romanticism

Bending echoes,
brought out from a lingering
puddle – one that ripples,
in the senseless storms
I keep reaping.

The winds,
the dirges,
the dismal howls
from a throat, that kisses
have long-since abandoned,

but here, you remain.

You speak, from that tainted shore,
where letters, drawn over
thickening lines
were left.

With more time
to be, with whatever
sands have kept,
in these bleeding palms,

held onto like
precious isolation we gave into,
or disposed like
warnings we chose to ignore,
under reddened skies
where wings forever soar.

We began holding oceans
in our eyes, with their
infinite years.

We gated, we sealed
memories in secret cages,
locked like familiar scenes
to hold onto,
from afar.