Modern Romanticism

It’s not a secret.
What we both suffered,
it had no flavor,
not even the bitterness
that we’d savor.

To love, it was our
most twisted disguise,
shaping two faces
that had no choice
but to hide.

This downfall
of what little we built,
this downpour
of our sliding teardrops
had all seconds to say
we had held on
for a mouthful of decay.

To make our own image
from these tatters,
from the scattered remains
of a shattered reflection,
we’d have to dig deep.

We’d have to move beyond
the pulling tides, to surrender
to time standing still,
to remake our meaning
in an hourglass.

We are both
mere brittle beings,
living to steal moments
to own as memories.

We sculpt shapes,
we perceive colors
that are there,
until they’re not.