Modern Romanticism

Parallel. Opposite to
hushed, rushed tides.
I heard that
your oceans are roaming,
though stagnant.
Tears are running in your
unmarked direction.
Your loss will be all;
I cannot turn around.

To waters that chase.
To footsteps that erase
histories kept on a blank sheet,
covering you, warming you
to that coldness you cannot face,
mirrored in frozen puddles
you cannot embrace.

Am I all that you never dreamed,
while you weep enough
to break those enclosed seams?

Cherished brokenness,
in a eulogy spoken next
of all, written in a few
reworded lines.
For eyes that promise
to weep another year
into another smear
of ink on a blank sheet
where nothing remained warm
inside purest winter.