Modern Romanticism

Among sands,
we wrote our names,
incorrectly.

We drifted apart,
leaving the letters
to be smothered.

Winds were pulling
our trembling arms,
towards a setting sun.

It was a designation
to where we would flee,
as our war was over.

It entered anticipation,
reentering ceremony
for the depiction
of two marble statues,
looking at the other
in their disbelief.

It enters our memories,
when the pain became
what we dined over,
while our worlds swam
in different directions,
indifferent to its call.

I want to know why
glaciers move slowly.

I want to learn why
the ice doesn’t melt.