Poem: Romance is Dead

Where his lips touched my hand

I sparked

but poetry isn’t written isn’t read anymore

so stubborn modern man and modern woman are

that Romance is dead

but he held my hand in the dark

in secrete

because Romance is dead

and there is only scandal and sluts and sexual harassment

because we now live in a world of

undulating music video stars shaking their money makers

Whoever talks of Romance

in the face of so many divorces and cheetas and

young pretty faced girls marrying older men

because Romance is dead

so he didn’t kiss my hand

he didn’t hold my hand in the dark

thinking about that kiss

for long minutes

listening we listened to a concert guitarist wail

and I didn’t spark in the dark.

I didn’t give permission.

He didn’t ask for it.

Because we knew without discussing it

that Romance was dead.

I just leaned into his kisses at the same time he turned his head to give them.

I’ll swear Romance is dead.

I’ll have to.

But it will be when I am dead

and he is dead

and no one is looking again

for our stolen moments

in public places

in the dark

recesses

of concert halls and parking garages and winding roads.

Stolen, we carted it away and guarded it,

because Romance is dead.


This is my first attempt to write anything resembling poetry, and to create poetry has to be the most irrational act a person can do these days, aside from lighting themselves on fire.

 

 

 

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