Modern Romanticism

If it wasn't enough to
continue currents,
with no desire to
interrupt rainfall,
we chose to drown
our faces, in each
other's arms.

We chose to see darkness,
burning when we couldn't
find water to dip
our red-rimmed eyes.

We chose to never speak,
silencing all sounds,
before they were ever
present on our lips.

Our prayers, our hopes
were given to the dead.
Our letters, our promises
had travelled, had led,
had transformed
into muted syllables.

Once, before disguises
was blank paper over
layers of delicateness,
we solved it,
we answered it
before the smoke rose.

Later, the sadness erupted,
as perfuming rain,
as the mist that drifts
all our statements into
stale purpose.

What sound do we make
when we come awake?