Modern Romanticism

How many tears
Can fit the frame?
Using my ink for the note,
Using my pain for the portrait.
Desires maddened and longed for
Under the disused mattress, where I lay,
Beneath the bed, where I stay.

I stay
To hold your hand
In the smallest goodnights
Faint, through a whisper.
I swear, I escaped a tunnel
Of your stare,
Though the memory
Among all its searing flashbacks
Remains aware,
Remains to bear
Weight upon my mind.

I kiss the frame
Of this bed, where your form
Once laid, atop it,
As I lay, beneath it.
I kiss, to kiss, again,
To whisper, once again,
That your skies are my land.

I held your hand,
As I now write my tears in a straight line.

I dropped your hand,
As I have dropped my flesh to sag,
Like the quilts that run off the edge,
Like the sheets that run like water off a ledge.