Modern Romanticism

There, you uncover
a blank slate, one where
ink may write what
remakes our story.

Here, I am nowhere
near to being able
to lift you, from behind
painted curtains.

Another hour
suffocating on hesitation.
To us both, we are
blanketed in remembrance.
What could a footstep
reveal in its residue?

What could a teardrop
raise from dried earth?

Love measured us
in the wind,
snared us in believing
that we could hold
the stars close.

We spoke of an outcome,
while preparing neither
of our timid hearts.

We forfeited our minds,
our forms, in the desertion
of everything we gathered.