Something had told
me, to never push
you against your scars,
against those cliffs,
where you keep yourself
seated, while weeping
waterfalls in a drought.
I never told myself
to not force you to bleed.
I kept you open,
hoping that I would close
with darkness over
these eyes that burn.
Delusional. Inside a
sentence, that promises
some other page
in a book with vast hopes,
with long tunnels
towards another entrance.
You will find arms
more comforting than
what wires you
to disconnection.
Modern Romanticism 