Modern Romanticism

Pressing urge
to filter our wants
through our hurt.
All I’m hoping for,
while leading tragedies
to safety, are those days
when our love
faded our moon,
restricted our doom.

Dog’s leash, slave’s collar –
symbols of our belonging,
before bleeding skylines.

Refusing to stand. Kneeling
upon earth, wherever
sunlight will land,

and I am here,
kissing your hand,
before our flesh
turns to sand.

Battered, amongst desire,
in caressing our skin,
while treading across the fire
we say has cleansed
wounds, summer’s wounds.

Bettered, returning higher
to that era of softness.
There is something to us
being lost, having a cost,
as histories can be tossed.