Modern Romanticism

Held close, consigned,
informed of what we might lose,
ashamed of what we might close
when our hearts are loosened,
after knotted
into that flaming noose.

Designed, to run free
when we were told to see
the things we brought up,
signing our name
on each other’s soul,
and igniting letters
that spoke
of nothing ever wrote.

We were bound to break,
but knowing this,
we were still caught
in tremors, in earthquakes,
loving until stars
were showering our cheeks
in their lasting alignment.

To tears, vast in puddles
at our sinking feet,
with one more kiss before we send off
that strangeness in each other’s eyes.

With one last discoloration,
we are coming apart,
clothed in our dispassionate
states, losing enough to remind us
of what we could not keep
as we eternally weep.