Modern Romanticism

Enough has driven us
to the furthest edge,
bordered on draining
our scars of their
connected meaning.

Life has misused us,
in the seconds we craved
to drift us on,
holding onto glass,
floating on a reflection
without letting go.

Love could taste
the eclipse we caused
when we’d forget
what this place was for,
designed for us to know
why ashes are snow.

The cold is a glimpse
into warmth, into the ease
of finding more
than what lingers in specks
on this unending trail.

Departing our eyes
on the nocturnal scene,
resenting our company
whenever it rains.

We won’t become what
we could ever correct,
when we are lost
in moments we select.

It’s better to revive
the last words,
before we measure
the burning taint
on bitter tongues.