Who comprehends, else for you, the gates that have been broken open to spread the blue across the green? Who remembers, soon as they have caught, the subtle details to each of the creases upon these bandages? Of those, with tightness to this skin, that tape my withered form?
Who sees, else but you, the sickness that has made me lurch?
All this pain has not come from you. I am a man whose senses, whose hands, whose words are his own. All this, to create castrated vision. Among this, to never see strength. Yet, in you, I see something magnetic. You pull my eyes to these scars, allowing my light to travel past the darkness. Though, who understands the tears that come? It is you, among no one else.
Love cannot bide your time, though you will see me everlasting. For I know you stand this for the simple sake of sustainment.
As you have bandaged me, you have made me perfect. As I have wounds, you have let the dust become flesh. As I have died, within, for just a single kiss, my mind has come alive.
I worry no more, when you hold this tired and limp form of my own. I live alone, no more, when I know you are near. With a single touch of your hand, you sculpt the life into me. You are not to blame, for anything.
You may depart, with the sun in your eyes. You may see the fog, behind. You may see yourself, finding eternity in another’s embrace.
Modern Romanticism 