The Last of the Romantics

I am the last of the romantics,
the last of the few people who used to whisper to the flowers
the names of the ones we love for the blooms to pronounce
to fall back to the soil when they wilt.

I am the last of the sect that drew poetry
in the night’s cold air with their warm breath,
so that it can be carried away by the wind
to settle as fog in the balconies of those in love.

We used to gather butterfly wings and bird songs
during the callid summer afternoons
to paint the sunsets and warm the mornings
of hostile winter days in January.

I am the last of those who sit outside in fall evenings
and close their eyes and listen and smell the chilly breeze
as it murmurs the names of their lovers
and send them kisses as the breeze continues its path.

The last of the people who looked into a person’s eyes
with the keys to the soul in their eyesight
and touched the hearts of those near them
and sealed their secrets under their skin.

The last of the ones that flew to the sky and hugged the clouds
without leaving their place on the ground;
that kept the stars in a jar under their bed
and freed them during the night to light their dreams.

I am the last of the romantics,
I feed off the love I receive from the few that love
in this unloving Earth we live in without romantics
after I die and become soil they will be extinct.

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