Modern Romanticism

There are scars,
the evidence of us
falling apart.

There are pieces,
leftover from when
we wanted this.

We were buried
under repeated words,
unending rain,
our excuses to separate
that first kiss
from the final twist.

We were too secure
in our wounds,
idling while we bled
to see if our bodies,
at their melting point,
can be a guide.

What falls from Heaven
is a slice of our
unkind bitterness.

What resides in Hell
is an awakening
for our slumbering minds.

We’re at least aware
of where misfortune
brought us,
scraping our flesh
as easily
as it warped our hearts.