Modern Romanticism

Such is the way
for the both of us
to keep screaming
that faint tune,
calling each other
at our final hour,
from across an ocean.

Filled with tides,
our hearts were blessed,
while holding hope
like a bouquet
of withered flowers.

All fallen petals,
we counted, while we
believed that we
could revive it.

Whispering sweet,
fatal promises,
wandering into streets
that went nowhere.
I will continue
to weep for our
expected moment.

Nothing could keep
itself ongoing, except for
all that we feel,
inside these wounds
that bring forth a thrill
of endless reminders.