Modern Romanticism

Summer made us gentle
with the storms,
those that approached
with the leaves
of a different season,
left behind.

We’d wilt
with the flowers,
the rows of soft colors
that leaked us to
fracture a smile.

We weren’t there
to smother the decay,
having teardrops
be our weights,
holding back an ocean,
only for white sand
to contain our history.

In long traces,
we’re forced to see
what became to be
its sudden sentiment,
its constant arrival
at our feet.

We’re forced to wield
this distancing winter,
in each of our hands,
pleading for the ice
to have our reflections
always wide.

There’s no more
to redraw,
to be remorseful for,
when we go forward
without seeing
what led us backwards
to endless dust.