Modern Romanticism

Losing track,
as it all unveils
once we've crept
too close to danger.

But there had
always been a warning
in the fading colors
among dying days.

We denied, while we
kept crying in the fog.

We revived what we
believed stayed frozen.

Our fingers were
lit candles, to burn
our trembling skin,
coming close
to whisper one more
secret that was
never kept.

We didn't wish
to bring this forward
to its inevitable end,
over to that ledge,
choosing instead to
let feelings be tangled,
let wires be crossed.

Being desperate to run,
because we were hoping
to lift up the sun
that had chose to flee
outside of reach.

We wanted warmth,
but we were receiving
all that we're already
far too used to.