Those long melodies
played under phantom surroundings.
Open mouths to scream about,
closed eyes to block out light.
You drifted, while I sifted
in these ashes of
everything around.
All those words,
written on black stones.
Promises spoken, yet unheard
by your heart on a pedestal.
Walk, if you can
towards an ocean,
far from land.
I have burned all that can be
even a hopeful mimicry.
Graces. Spaces, to a crawl
that extends me on with
darkness, wrapped within
these cruel hands.
I kissed. For no more,
I can miss, while you drain
evenings into stagnancy.
You keep these suns lit,
while I remain blind,
inside where I am confined.
Burns. Open hearts,
with surgical procedures
to get me loosened
with tighter valves,
with running veins.
Love does not let go,
in these countless grains.
Modern Romanticism 