Modern Romanticism

We’ve chosen this. Having chosen us, continuing to walk over our premature grave like the times when we swim in each other’s skin. Love arranged this, did it not? Or was it something else?

Was it mere time?

Our confession turned into denial of what wasn’t absolution. Our knees once became soft at the submission of our hard glances towards what he had, and continue to, admire in vain. It represents itself within and outside of a shell, being what confines our hearts inside. It is a feeling. It was supposed to be something more, but it never became that way.

Now we just walk into each other, stumbling over the pieces of a ruin we refrain from rebuilding. What would be the use, when all we are are each other’s haunt? I’ve love to dig in to rebuild foundations, though all I do is dig to make our graves deeper.

Still, what is that depth if not something we find to be human? We can go on, like this, holding each other’s hand with the rusted rings of promise we do not want to take off. We can keep on with the screams, withering in corners, reaching quivering hands towards the sky. Or we can admit to everything to its nothingness. What would be the truth? Or what looks more like the truth than what does not?

You’ll undress me, in mirrored movements when I undress you. I see where your wounds are, in the same places where you find mine. Your face glistens from what we both know. Your hands reach for what cannot be taken back, if it’s not to be released after the expense of a moment.

We will keep this going if it’s going to delude us to believe in a love that never occurred. The pain will move into tomorrow. Tomorrow’s pain will wander a step ahead of us, becoming yesterday’s memory.