Modern Romanticism

I cannot consider
another like yourself,
as all else I’m seeing
are moss-covered headstones,
with either rain or weathering
drawing lines,
down their shape.

Other than you,
whoever should be?
Other than us,
what essence could see
more than what we are,

while holding skin this close,
under bedsheets, enclosed?

If you leave,
I’ll trace your name
in infinite sands,
upon swaying lands,
quaking earth.
This heart will not be
merciful to me.

If you stay,
I’ll remain until we turn
beautiful and gray.
When death kisses our faces,
we’ll keep our loyalty
relentless through our graces.