Modern Romanticism

Chance this welcome,
face this sentencing
to another’s wishful summer
of gathering together
petals that fall in reverse,
towards a vacant sky.

I am full, with these hands
motioning for a swaying tune.
I am enticed, reaching for
a carmine red,
I’ve come to abhor.

She signals, with her shadows
drawing a curtain around me,
while I leave a world
over these fallen shoulders.

I am not giving in,
though I am giving over
one more second to understand
where endings receive
their blank pages.

The last of all those faces
clinging with tears, to that velvet
of a summer’s wickedness.
The last of all heartbeats
that fade into remembered,
stolen moments,
caught with the rain
upon trembling fingers.