Departure. At a drift.
Regression, before a kiss
might have receded these waves
while I walk on for cliffs
to send beneath, this fall.
Mute this note. Force one
mouth to close. I have been
too close, for words to connect.
Loss of grace. A lack of water
in its space. Leaving marks, trails
for your ghost to follow.
Dry lips. Emptied arms.
Folded shirts in their plaid
complexity. Are you everywhere,
under burning curtains?
Are you revealed in those stars,
or concealed in these scars?
I walk on, with everything
dragging from pacing eyes.
You have moved on,
facing mountains, before
those curving shores
where we left a few
tears, in discolored sand.
Modern Romanticism 