Modern Romanticism

A tale written,
weighted under stones,
inked with the tears
of your streaked face.

What were we wishing for,
when shielded with curtains?

No light was brought,
nor leaked, from the dawn
of another sighted day.

Just a belief
in seeing smiles
reflected from
our yearning faces,
our exhaling lips.

No hope to come
for the battered flesh,
for these senseless scars,
for all that we
forever toiled for.

Love should know
what to look for,
but we've found nothing
except for the space
we've gifted each other.

To be deprived
of sounds, of views,
while an ocean takes
what we've held onto,
for lifetimes.

What is a single kiss,
if not meant to heal
the wounds we reveal?