Modern Romanticism

You used to
let the smoke rise
up to engraved eyes,
while I kissed each finger
that burned on its end
like a wick, for a breath
that would never extinguish.

We were used to
our desires being rushed,
our dreams being crushed.
We were accustomed
to what would continue to
draw imperfect circles
around our wounded forms,
in the sand.

I used to
hope beyond remorse,
wading towards a sunrise,
while you were held back,
to repeat what you said
in my shadow.

You used to
cover our eyes with curtains,
with the smoke that would rinse
pain into continued pain.
I hoped, though nothing would
revive what I wanted to
forever survive.

You repeated a handful
of unrevised syllables.
You spoke what I could not,
letting go of us in the rain,
as we turned to become
all colors in a stain.