Modern Romanticism

Why weren’t we ever more
than our disbeliefs? Over everything
we gave into, to abhor –
we displayed our flesh
for the world to ignore.
We reprimanded our blessings,
drew knives like drawing our outline
around where we fell.

In love, hopelessly
standing in a river,
red with a murdered connection.
At our flesh, we laid breaths
like hanging pictures
on a solid color.

Kisses were deep.
Feelings were a chime,
upon wind, at the most
insignificant touch.
Who are we?
Looking through mirrors –
through, and never around.

As two outlines,
drawn where we stained
this earth, dressed in bare feet,
dressed down in conceit.

Through, piercing in
while love was an arrow
across a field of scars.

Choking on sand,
drowning in a grave
where light cannot be saved.