Modern Romanticism

It was meant as
one last teardrop
left to let go,
to discard false smiles
that let us get past
the silent storms.

Under the rain,
we sheltered our fire,
bringing its heat
into our hearts.

It was enough
for hope to stay
as our leading flame,
our treasured name.

But it wasn’t enough
to see Hell away
from those spaces
we kneeled to pray.

It wasn’t enough
to have what we wanted,
with kisses to startle
our rushes of fear
into instantaneous,
marveling peace.

It was one more
devastating teardrop
that came as one more
breach in our sanity.

It brought on the flow
that dragged us in tow.

It carried on devastation,
fueling anticipation.

Were we ever close
to see where we’d be?
We’d be tangling fingers,
crossing over limbs
in private displays
of euphoria.