Modern Romanticism

Painful imagining.
I swear, with a teardrop,
that you have gone under
the waves that were tossed,
from these embracing hands.
Was I ever someone
who let you in,

like a door that tremors,
in the space of passing gusts?

A longing. Along
the thin, sand-covered miles,
surging you to see
that some things do accompany
these borderlines.
Somewhere, droplets
would have been spread
for your feet to walk,

for your eyes to open
your mouth to talk.

For you to speak
for the light that never reached,
until there was breath, again,
I will answer your emptiness
to steer you far from the woefulness.

I will remind you of the sun,
when the moon never glows,
should you have me
amongst thickest shades,
in forecasted backgrounds.

You were predicting
what would never arrive,
letting thunder cry
its guttural sequence,
above an ocean
of your helplessness.