Modern Romanticism

We were, under layers,
simple infants, learning to talk.
Learning to speak,
when we wanted to repeat
when we couldn’t let go.

We wouldn’t let go of our stars,
fighting endlessly with those wars –
those we’d race off to.

When we wanted to drown,
we wished to seek comfort
in our minds.

In our minds,
where we would let go,
of each other.

Among each other,
we were aiming
to stall the arrival
of a broken heart.

We were soon singing
to each other,
in crippled cradles.

We were surrendering
to each other,
translating our bibles,
seeking our salvation,
tending to moments
we would discover
ourselves, collapsing.

In each other’s arms,
where light might go out,
as it did go out,
we found ourselves dying.

With no more than a moment
to our lifetime, we went out.

A fire that could not be saved,
with memories
that could not be engraved.