Modern Romanticism

A bitter departure,
while it depicted our
relived resolve
to keep our eyes
radiant against one
unseen sun.

If we had kept on,
it might have been
our turn to fly
against the wind
that pushed us back.

We gave due credit to
just the seconds we
were able to salvage,
while coming apart
under the rain.

We were forced
to turn back,
to become what we
promised each other
never to be.

Just cowards in arms,
sleeping within the
gratitude of our divorce,
chasing grace to the moon
that cries itself to sleep
behind the clouds.

Anything to return to
is left among its ruins,
left to an unending
funeral beneath stars,
infinite in number.