Modern Romanticism

She has made me want
To die.
She has made me want
To cry.
To weep cries of softness
And greater bitterness,
Into these hands that tremble,
For I am sick to my utter core.

In my failure,
I am still in my mind.
I have faulted everything
In all my failure.

And yet,
To feel guilt is noble,
Is it not?

My health, I care not for it.
My mind, I care not for it.
Only the memory of a dear, do I hold in my palm,
As it rots so frequently
With the passage of a few drops of time.

Little noble guilt that I feel,
And I wonder
Why my words feel so empty.
I see distortion in the letters,
As pain rides my back,
Radiates,
And I know
It is still her.