Modern Romanticism

What might it look like,
reversing a sentenced,
discarded direction?

It was meant to be dead,
not meant to be unread
for its poignant eulogy.

We smiled after we
let go of what we clasped
within soiled hands.
For we were
exhausted, of all
we could be
even in residual
commitment.

We still cried,
though we did not
come to ever lie,
when dust soaked
our soft feet.

We were walking
down a brightened mile,
never stopping to
hope to redo,
to reimplement
love's shackles.

We are not for
each other, after we
began tending to storms,
leaving puddles
to pause, within moments
of idle remorse.

What might it look like,
to lose what we promised
for two pairs of eyes,
for two hearts
that began to hate,
after it was too late?