Modern Romanticism

If we've both been born
to see skies covered in ice,
having steered into this
frozen, pretended direction,
we've delayed for too long
the place we've yet to say
it is where we belong.

Concealed within the other's
softened reflection, one where
misinterpretation reigns,
as kisses are just like sponges
to soak the aftermath
of our hearts, within their
timeworn yearning.

Revealing who we are,
to the other, to no longer
wish to ever delay
the seconds where we
can become fulfilling
to the other.

It is an act, requiring one
combined statement of
hardened admittance,
one where whispers
no longer leave trails
of ash and rain.

For we'll speak the words
we've said only when
our faces are disguised
among public eyes.

We'll anticipate our own
maddening crowd,
facing the sinister shadows
birthed from lit wombs.