Modern Romanticism

My flesh

Is the rotting sculpture,

As I will see you nurturing it.

I want to open my lips,

Though they are encased

By death's embrace.

Your obsession

Is tiring to my decaying self.

I've wanted to kiss

Your face in the idlest moments.

I've wanted to kiss

Your skin in the fire of combined hours.

My face does tell a tale

Of something,

As nothing more pale

Than the pages left blank.

My eyes upon you

Are the deadest.

You are the life that I've wanted,

As I have come to abandon.