Modern Romanticism

Extract these prayers,
dissolve our wishes
against shooting stars.
We have sat still,
letting desperation be
in these words, to be
with each other, in a moment
when we will be connected,
while broken in dispassion.

Isn’t a palm filled,
better than hunger?
Or are we stalling
at an overlooked conclusion?
Have we forfeited
what we failed to let die?

A kind of peace
might lurk beyond us,
though we are rewinding
previous seconds, to be blinded,
to be reminded of our light
in this comforting darkness.

We hold each other,
reviewing years in recognizing
why a sun must go down,
though we are not acknowledging
an ending when we are mending
a wound we cannot even see.