Modern Romanticism

I place circles,
drawn over porcelain skin,
surrounding where we
dried our flesh,

brought ourselves down
to feeble moments.

Seconds were passed
over skies in black drapes.
I remember how we
felt our hearts,
splashing in sudden rain,

drying ourselves in the morning.
We were returning to see
all that we ought to believe.

To tears, we swept
sunlight beneath rugs,
writing our names
above scars,

concealing our love
beneath nude,
crude stars.