Modern Romanticism

Both of us were pushed
down the same current,
lost in white rapids,
lost from an immaculate
source of our company.

We've carved letters
on plain sands,
drifting for hours
on residue, from our
hollowed hearts.

We wanted messages
to keep connecting
to softer surfaces,
pointing our vision
to greater ambition.

Nothing rose from
a garden, as bleak as
the weather that never
melted our skin,
without permission.

We just lifted our agony
to the wind that cut
our flesh, into ribbons.

A celebration, in pain,
savoring those moments
we kissed in the rain.