Modern Romanticism

What we found
was that cliff,
to rinse our hands
of our memories,
when we were blending
hopes with tragedies.

Reusing love
as something we can give
from hearts made of stone,
though we were weathered
down to the bone.

Remembering light
to blind our feeding eyes.
We blossomed romance,
from cupped hands,
drinking our disease
of catastrophe and unease.

A split, a universal shift
to a place where tears run down.
Like sweating temples,
or like melting wax,
we're leaving a trail of marks
for shadows to follow.