Modern Romanticism

We've been waiting
while giving each other
much-needed space,
disclosing secrets
in rooms full of dust.

We've been spilling
what's left in our eyes
onto floors that turned red,
bloodshot with our sight
that burns, that stares.

This will get better,
for us to bloom under
all we've been crowding
in our heads, to keep
wondering when.

Death knows nothing
but its own tragedy.
Our love pursues,
keeping curtains open,
keeps veins spilling
their bold color
over all we've let go
to be blended, together.

I don't know when,
but this will get better
for us to smear
our forms, into perfect,
formless resemblance.

Our suffering will
be extinguished,
at the end of a final,
relieving teardrop,
when it falls to create
a puddle, our reflection.