Modern Romanticism

What if I could
find a pathway
back to that sudden,
helpless second?

I held forth a hand
to reach for your land
where light always came
from a hopeful heart.

You kept reigniting
a lighthouse, a beacon,
alerting me to you,
wherever you were
ever dreaming.

I gave what no one did,
through solemn purity.
It was always tainted,
but is this the same?

It hurts to go forward,
while this emptiness
becomes that feeling
when looking back.

It pains us
to keep marching
over blood trails,
to keep voyaging
with tattered sails.

Are we sure to be
the one for the other,
when winter is the coldest,
while it's the cleanest,
when summer is the warmest,
while it's the filthiest?

Are we meant for this,
while we keep guessing
over its nature?