Modern Romanticism

I’ve come to
confess what I know
up to now.

You’re the perfect
edge of my
imperfect circle.

Outside, a world
rains and thunders.
Within, some of our garden
wilts its former colors.
There are stops to make
to be reminded of why
we remain floating.

I don’t love to deny
why I’ve cried,
acknowledging that a rope,
invisible, even burning,
has held us close.

A fragile ecosystem,
our chamber,
what we call home
or what we’ve named as
our old spot under the sun.

It’s a curse,
it’s a gift,
it’ll reverse,
it’ll be what lifts
our lives above tears,
with our bodies down
to mix a kiss
in the silk.