Modern Romanticism

It builds
into dense atmosphere,
swapping nothing,
no more, not when
we’re entering a state
of completion.

We’ve bled,
wounding our eyes
in separation of our bliss,
while it is now
with four lips combined,
we share a kiss.

Our sounds rise,
the curtain are pulled
to provide one room
with total darkness.

We’ll bloom in sight
of our glowing faces,
in sight of rivers
binding for eternity.

A blessed rose,
an evening that fell,
closed lids that serve
to blind ourselves
to what love,
even when it hurts,
will do, with grace.

We’ll bleed
different colors,
upon hearing heartbeats
thudding in the ecstasy
of a treasured moment.