Modern Romanticism

To sculpt you
out of porcelain memory.
Sadness is a gift
when hands reach to sift
what’s taken, to lift
up to eyes, up to skies
where the presence of eternity
gets depicted in a sunrise.

To remind myself
of what came to be,
under rain, this loathsome.

To let myself know
of those steps taken below
a crying, blurred sight
as darkness blends with light.

You are that tragedy
for hands, darkened with soil,

after you came to me,
upon a decorated boat,
surrendering to a love
that we defended from death,
when we merged, in flesh.

I am mere grains,
filtered through an hourglass,
while you are those leaves
crumbling into stains.