Modern Romanticism

Rewinding where we
left off, on a page
where emptiness speaks heavily.
Cut fingers, from edges
of a paper, written in haste,
tells of no more to explore
for an illness, for a comfort.

We were detailing
our deception, in summary.

Always meaning to retreat
back to prior passages,
realizing within fog
that love must have been showing
something of color,
other than black decorating white.

Behind, to clotted memories,
flowering among carols,
laughter, portrayals of salvation.

That final error,
that miserable grammatical entity
undid love in its perfect form.

We delude each other
to see ourselves within clouds,
to see smiles where there are storms,
while waiting for correction.

We reflect within puddles,
dirtied from mire we mistake for ink,
watching us vanish
with a pen’s last stroke,

with an unseen lightning bolt.