Modern Romanticism

Folded hands
mimic the creases
in timeworn clothing.
I’m holding onto more
than what I thought
I took from the occasion.

Black figures,
blood-shot eyes,
tears blooming
from souls in mourning.

There are endless ways
to tell this story.

This is only one way
to say how it ended.

A petal fell
from one who died,
from one who rose
with the color red
tearing through her lips
to greet me.

She’d rewind me
to the first time
we met before a lake,
before our reflection
to look at,
before our dissection
at love’s depth.

With the wind,
she’s gone.
Within the waves,
she’s adrift.

Among the stars,
she remains
as infinite,
as eternal
as the pain.