Modern Romanticism

Our devoted space
hadn’t its worth,
going from its straight,
decided line
to a compilation
of curves,
of twists.

It wasn’t long
until we were hanging
from that prior line,
forming the curves,
the twists
from our time spent
in the wind.

It wasn’t long
until we were reusing
the same promise
from the same story.

When it wasn’t long
until we’d become
mere ashes in the wind,
we relit our fire
for one more time.

We reignited our flame
to be able to see
where we’d be,
caught in the smoke,
breathing in ash,
letting ourselves choke
on our union’s crash.