Modern Romanticism

Our sickness
is something to find
a common sense,
a sensation in,
whenever we
water our eyes
in tragedy's disguise.

We blind our beauty
under constant,
euphoric depravity.

For we are unified
when we undress
to reveal our
pallid tones,
worshipping the other
when sinking down
on shattered knees.

To continue to love,
to continue to drop
all from above
messages from
a darkened Heaven,
we are forever
within each other's
favorable denial.

I want to caress
the sounds in your
frightful whimpers,
if they'll ever be
something to see.

I'll continue to inhale
your disappearance,
filling lungs with vapor,
pretending that you
have returned to me.

All of this, all fragile
where us, as two birds
never take flight for long
when we have somewhere,
anywhere, to crash.