Modern Romanticism

Our world. Gusts had told its tale. Its own whispers, drifting everything everywhere. Seeds once spread. Gardens had grown. Love was birthed from a small fraction of all being felt. When we felt it, we gave our eyes over to it. But nothing had burned, as nothing had lit itself up in the dark. In the dark, we gave to each other our closest caresses. During daytime, we paid attention to our breaths. We paid attention to our movement. Everything was viewed, and nothing was believed to ever become lost.

In the darkness, there’s something that has sparked. Once, it felt like love, for it was love. In this time, it is something else. It is something that hurts. It causes us to bleed and to, with all our desperation, attempt to put out these flames. Gusts bring it everywhere. No more, like a garden, does it spread. It spreads like a cancer, now. A disease ravages us, and we still cling to the warmth of the day. We cling to hope, as we ask questions that don’t deserve answers.

We’ll speak the words, offered up after being bathed in an ocean of confusion. We’ll ask, “Are we still made for each other, bound up in all that we promised?” and another that comes as, “Why would we let this happen?” Unanswerable questions, permeating from confusion, all because of something we overlooked. Love made us gullible. Love blinded us, because we kept ourselves always in the dark. Cloaked in what comforted us, though we didn’t see the end coming. We didn’t see the fires coming close.

The fires make the darkness be a source of light, and the daytime comes after our world’s restless rest to remind us of there being no relief.

What else is there to live for? What can be overcome, once more? Is there a garden somewhere to grow? Is there anything to revive?

Our world is burning. Our world is giving light, but that light is a side effect to the destruction being brought. We’ll not warm our hands to it. We’ll just surrender to it, dragging our eyesight to a different space, a place of darkness to become consumed. When we heal, it’ll perhaps hurt as much as what we have lost. We’ll perhaps long for the return of the pain, as much as we’ll long for the return of each other back into a tomb of an embrace.