Modern Romanticism

I don’t believe
some spare bough, can stretch
for your scars, because I have
been that one to keep returning
a fallen leaf, for your hair.

Even in tears, I land back
to burn into you,
because I aim to accompany
your present image,
in each droplet of rain
to set the stains.

To set the stage
means to welcome both.

Dualities, of hopeless future
with a lifeless past,
as I’ll count our footprints
amidst blinding snow.
I’ll count our seconds,
to be welcomed into this
unending setting of darkness.

I’ll be here to sing through
a damaged shelter
that can’t contain us, from tears,
from a present we are to smear
into the blue, of storms
that are never brand new.

These kisses, these praises,
this continual entrance
to keep leaving our sinking ship
adorned in stones,

even when hope had been
just a stone’s throw,
for a different designation.