Modern Romanticism

Quickened fall
of droplets
from a pair of winter’s
agonized eyes.

Kisses are many
for lips, tasting blood
of what we’ve cut
from within.

A tongue
flapping in gusts.
Profanities flowing
to match life’s
nonstop race.

Two hearts know
what time isn’t left
for us to go,
for us to dance
to the melody
of quiet.

There’s a storm
that remembers us,
knows why
we’ve been bleeding
from a source,
one that’s on course
for permanence.