Modern Romanticism

You've been collecting
thorns for withered roses.
I have been collecting
thoughts for a vase,
built from cracked glass.
I've hoped for growth
for the both of us,

though a funeral has
already been prepared,
with one coffin,
with not enough room
for the both of us.

Can these tears
lift us from our roots?
We were once infants,
but we were not
meant to leave this earth
weeping like how
we entered it.

With one moment
upon another, in scattered
grains of our ephemeral
passages through time,
we've kissed,

kneeling under thunder,
drinking our tears,
deep under water.

Love can mute
these needless screams,
while a needle can move
to where we can
come to start over.