Modern Romanticism

I’ve always known when
we were fleeing from
ever considering
our timeline,
the cavernous emptiness,
the white-out of our
following feelings.

An hour stood still,
as we were embracing
a different second,
and a moment was all
we were hoping for.

If just to see
our space, to breathe in
what we don’t release
towards the sun,
on the run,

we’d turn at that edge,
to devour what we
anticipate.

We will always be
a terrible shadow
to conceal everything,
when time is the only thing
to remember us
at a stand-still.

Freezing temperatures,
burning wood,
all this consolation
for our eyes
to see down a trail
to a destination
that did not
get closer.