Modern Romanticism

Who set the sun?
Waiting for it,
the place won't matter,
when our eyes open
to still feel everything
we'll come to deny.

Who brought the gun?
Shooting was meant
to kill, not to capture,
not to prolong our
shadows into dawn's
deepest breaths.

We'll be lost,
at least for a time,
in a sickness
we've yearned for,
at the same time
being one we abhor.

I'll caress your cheek,
hearing the same sound
at your shimmering lips
with the birth of music
from countless birds.

We'll want more,
to keep this fever
pressed onto our skin,
with the warmth
of morning's welcome.

We'll spill our tears
with the coldness
of mourning's invasion.