Modern Romanticism

What let clouds
call back our tears?
What allowed pages
to be turned
to a different chapter
with the same roles?

Written on slate,
our story wore itself
when a face looked,
when a face looked
as barren as
who else was there.

Reflective undertow,
as sadness was our
darkening rehearsal,
behind curtains,
for no one else to know.

We repeated the flow
of grief, to subside
the sensations.

All went under,
as pain went over
with neglected tragedy.

We were comedians,
with our laughing masks,
swiping aside droplets
on the real face,
the true sides.

Love is a crown,
one that we wore
on our way
into a ghost town,
full of those
who had recognized
neither of us,
while not one of them
cried for us.