Modern Romanticism

Our promises
go together
into disarray.

These parts,
our empire
are all faulted.

What excuse
to make here?

We are counting
our remaining seconds
as fluid as the rain
from our hearts.

It’s been a tight knot,
in calling doubts
an inconvenience.

Not once, did we see
what we weren’t meant for,
with our heads
buried in the reflection
we hoped to be.

It’s now our fortune
to view our pain
as building materials.

Under the sun,
we were nothing new
in that tragic run
of limbs at the foreground
of love’s fatalism.