Modern Romanticism

Freezing a circle,
one subtle prison
where sounds were brought in,
quivering under brightness
of a sun, dilated like a pupil,
shrunken like a grain of sand
in our disarray.

We wept, in our madness
with love keeping us
inside burning shelters.
As captives, we sought after
what we wanted at night:

to sleep under cold moonlight,
lost in that circle of our arms.

Kisses drove roots to grow
down our unquenched throats.
Their dried-out semblance –
a reason to keep going
across our miles of agony.

We froze rain to catch tears,
solidifying our urges,
in a liquified panic
for what was leaving.

We were leaving
one another,

while we could not
forgive the other,
living for another
winter, growing colder.