Modern Romanticism

Tears hold fast,
wetting the earth
in their descension
from clouds
breathed out,
crystalline.

On the horizon,
monochrome is the
unformed color,
measuring the depravity
with toiling accuracy.

I just wanted to
never release the hand
that came close,
pressing itself upon
the naked sleeve,
the heart that melts
upon recalling
all it had felt.

But puddles are here,
surrounding a pair
of quivering legs,
while I’m merging rivers
with oceans, meeting
such paralyzing reflections
in the stillness of myself.

I’ll keep waiting
until familiar faces
will change, despite
knowing they won’t,
while I cover
these eyes, these years
with a crude vividness
to keep chasing away
all hope in the way.