Modern Romanticism

There’s a field
we cannot avoid,
where we must connect
the right dots,
to form the lines,
the wide curves
that shelter us.

Under a storm
we drowned in a long
state of rehearsal.

Under dark sheets,
we had melted
into mere turbulence.

There’s more for this,
for one solitary space
to land a kiss,
to hear what our hearts
quake for.

We need not leave dust,
form rust on awkward,
fatal angles.

We need not decay
while a room requests us
to adorn it in green.

A breath in the wind,
springtime in the sights
gives us a pure vision
to uncover love’s
engrossing mysteries.