Modern Romanticism

Wandering far, coming close
to this narrowed objective.
Our winds pushed us,
our tears kept us afloat
until we realized
what else was sinking.

In an aftermath,
crowded in its disgrace,
I've felt that sting
on bleeding arms.

You were kissing
these wounds, to close,
while you were too close
to understand what
you could have understood,
from far away.

I should have broken
our pieces, into more pieces,
should have kept our eyes
from seeing a shadow
we called our hope.

I should have revealed
what wilts our growth,
to be replaced with truth,
despite its bitterness,
despite its barrenness.

Truth was a teardrop too many
to birth all the color that we
kept waiting for, while we
were walking in mystery.