Modern Romanticism

We overheat,
when we rush,
when we dissolve
winter, into our aftermath.
Who holds hands, anymore?
Who else tells secrets,
beneath folded bedsheets?

I have gained no courage
to continue this fight, as I am
willing to keep this heart
beating for no more.

I've lost a ring of promise
to a distant moon,
bending rays of light
around these fractured bones.
Nothing burns
as often as it should,
when I am scorning
a brittle past.

Nothing feels close,
when I am soaring
between piles of dust,
from collapsed skies.

We've met, at our end
of a rope, with nothing
for these orbs of red
to heal, to mend.

We've kissed away
tears to float,
sunlight to come down
a river, one that runs
far from our stinging eyes.