Modern Romanticism

I’ve answered prayers
for myself,
in binding myself in ruin,
while blinding myself with dust –
a rainfall of your departure.

What to salvage?
Where can I find you,
among those heaps?
Written paragraphs are heavy
in what they hold.
Eyes tell more,
more in what we noted
of each other,
in smaller examinations.

To fingers that trembled,
we held together
everything that mattered more
than a singular impression.
What’s more,
in a lake full of reflection,
is the limitless captivation
that kept us embraced.

If I could lift
droplets from what I’ve watched
vanish, dismiss itself,
I would drain oceans.

If I could,
I wouldn’t decline
to see you lingering
for a second longer,

smoothing ripples,
letting waves come back
before the collapse.