Modern Romanticism

There’s the rush,
the salience, the gush
of color from all
your waves,
your ripples,
your curves.

I find that I
am a child, again,
toying with sounds,
playing in the traffic
of a thousand deadly
ongoing motions.

I am splashing
within this heat,
receiving whispers
from the sun.

You’ve been here,
always on the run
while waiting for fear
to give up its turn.

You are loved,
but I cannot recreate
your lost Heaven,
a departed haven.

I am just another
droplet, hitting a puddle
you call your ocean.

I provide the warmth
for one more second
to let loose your song.