Modern Romanticism

Having rinsed hands
in bleak clouds,
we waited for winter,
with its white dust,
to cover us
in history's rush
to the end.

We waited for death,
while continuing to hope
our final breath
will be counted.

In the miles
we've kept our love
our world's secret,
we've dreaded
coming close.

We feared
closing wounds,
closing chapters
until that last page
hung like a tear.

Kisses could have
been the thunder
that wakes us.

Embraces might have
warmed our cold souls,
bled us from our shell.

We resided
in an unspeakable silence,
drifting through
a field with all its absence.

We did not
even whisper,
growing the camellias
to let them wither.