Modern Romanticism

Hand over your caress
to skin, wounded with history.
You are standing in the rain,
reusing ink in each droplet,

while telling a story
in different sized puddles.

What reflections are there
to shatter you between
our split hemispheres?

I am connected,
while you are holding
onto nothing but wind.
I am receiving
your repeated words,
declining in your circles,

being outlined,
being traced.

Can we rearrange our promise,
having something to sing for?

Notes are these symbols
on a page filled with transparency.
Nothing sticks, everything slides,
filtered through lips that yearn
for that provided burn.