Modern Romanticism

The shape refuses to
conform to its shades,
as it remains in
the light of its admirer.
I have drawn it,
always over again,
while I return to it
under all silent nights.

Bitterness comes back
to this mouth, missing
who I brought close,
face-to-weeping-face.
We would smear tears
far from its location,
while we smiled
to bring up our hearts
from ever drowning.

We would take flight,
wrapped in the sun
with its famous warmth,
covering our old scars
in its emerging rays.

But I am bleeding here,
tracing your form in sands,
before an endless ocean.
I swear to myself
that it is the eighth of them,
counted one more
than the well-known seven.

I swear to all else
that I cannot hold back
the tide from these eyes,
those that have lifted
a flooded world
on its mere glance.

If we were to, once again,
unite in this velvet night,
we might be able to
fill in the gaps,
remember those words
we spoke for promises,
for the gain for our
life's simple preciousness.