Modern Romanticism

You've cried to me
when we were standing
beneath weather,
a different forecast
than what we have now.

You were here,
stalling forces
from breaking you,
redressing your form
in dirtied bandages.

It's only when
the sunrise is present,
that you can let yourself
become absent,
from truth, from the way
you've let yourself decay.

But when it rains,
you smile for one
impermanent while,
believing better
in this or that lie,
among others.

What we have now
is relentless rain,
the pressure, the pain
that ropes itself
around our feet
to set these stains.

We won't have
what we don't have,
until a candle is lit,
until the truth of our
failing union, is given
the words that admit
what's been defiled.

While you've circled
a storm of passing hours
with collected dust,
I have been reviewing
what's not red with rust,
until we can become
more than what's undone.