Modern Romanticism

I could tell
when we first fell
in love, from above,
to those layers,
being upon knees
with fragile prayers.

Tempting fate
through a blank slate.
Our fingers tended
to wounds, to be mended
before we were hurt.

We've always known
where gleams from blood
were to be shown.

Enemies for eternity,
damaged without serenity.
What more will follow?

What more will flow
from these open veins?
Having a lifetime to go,
with names for stains.

Yours and mine,
forever confined
along hallways of time.