Modern Romanticism

I leave a lingering tear
to paint that scene,
upon a single smear.
We are tragic,
trailing these years
in letters, going gray
under overlapping waves.

We've written promises
on board a vessel,
full with collected salvage,
formless debris,
taken from beneath.

We've discovered our ruins
from somewhere below.
It was there, when we were
kissing with flames in tow.

Hemorrhaging our hearts,
leaving our blood to float
above where eternity would start,
without us, far from us.

It had been those ruins
where we were sheltered,

drifting in our dust,
drawn over in rust.