Modern Romanticism

Between the rush, delicate
in what we touched.
I am reliving our fever,
for its warmth. I’ll not commit,
with eyes, under blankets,
under where we often
took to rewinding.

Wind had blown out
our candles that
brought ignition to our gray.
Faces had run out
of their tears, without
anything left
to bring closer.

I am reliving this fire,
burning beneath those curtains,
the ones that decorated
what windows, where we
were always overlooking.

We were, in our time,
always surrendering.
We are, without any time,
constantly remembering.
But nothing holds,
from the dust,

nothing but crudeness,
from the rust.