Careful when you rise.
Our foundations might shake
with each pressing goodbye
to a phantom at that door.
Folded limbs, forgotten
eyesight against dark,
sheer coverings
over trembling flesh.
Melt as a candle,
birth yourself from burns.
At a corroded fossil,
twisted of limbs in eroded stone,
fueling this conflagration
highlighting our resignation.
Blank skin. Written, blank checks
with invisible ink. Because
we will fade into our own life,
without redefining what
counts grasping fingers to ten –
steps towards uneven love.
Nine breaths, one less
to start with. While one more
fled to that bleeding door.
You sigh, going off
into winter, without
a fire living on.
You took no embers,
even before lights go out.
Modern Romanticism 