Modern Romanticism

Give me news,
let me know
when our journey
has ended.

I’ve passed by
what you’ve built,
what you’ve left
to its creaking frame.
I have heard it,
just I hear your
leaking heart.

We’ve given well
enough to the hell
we’ve both endured,
but you are choosing
to return us
to our days,
lost in peril.

You are losing
sight of what we
both were grateful for,
putting back the shade
into the light
of our years in growth.

I cannot carve
a different promise
than the one I made,
when we were
miles apart,
on distant roadways,
always letting the blue
pass over our green.

I cannot come back to
that sentient storm,
sitting in puddles
playing in the mud
that holds no candles
to ignite our faces.