Modern Romanticism

Leftover, being heated under
this unkind standard,
kept at that line drawn on your lips.
Who were you speaking to,
when our clouds had vaporized?

We were revealed,
with wounds that were never
this much hemorrhaging,
until emptiness.

A letter was unsealed,
while words were brought closer.
I filled them in our softness,
though you lit a match.

Who were you running to,
when sceneries turned to dust?

How much are you willing
to redo this, to forgive our way?

I will be here,
undergoing what we portrayed,
in shimmering, outlined silhouettes,
where our hands were reaching
for space, we were
unable to trace.