She tells my pain to wait. As if water can fall after I’ve twisted a knob to a faucet. This heart, twisted, knotted in its infinite veins, spread like tree roots to an age of a tree that has already fallen.
These eyes have gained flashes. All those empty rooms, filled with one more hollow scream for measured ceilings. They were meant for a measureless sky. They were with rain dances performed in minds that waited until their own bouquets had wilted, pleading for raindrops when needing sunlight.
What can I requisition for a love that falls behind? Whose bullet can I dodge when an ending has been written, on pages soaked with tears that never quenched me? Not one word spilled will bring relief. Not one sigh can flip my story’s back cover closed. For I cannot close these eyes, without seeing her world on fire.
Entertained by laughter. Saved by madness. These hands tremble under this weight of an absence I hold close with all those phantoms. Their limbs pass through, with their path to embrace me finding a different way. How does she know this? Telling me that a pain must wait, for another day that will end another life. A noose already creeps up my shoulders. A hand has already turned my body around to face those fuses, those sparks, able to ignite a future to be identical with my history. I want to hear her words, from a different mouth. I wish to see her tears be lifted from a different well, without such contamination.
I walk on, having clouds overhead with rays of light aiming light like sniper rifles for both sides of my temples. To both sides where forgiveness can come, or it can be repressed, when we pray with a sadness, inside, to never revive, or we beg for it to be blanketed with soil above those dead.
Modern Romanticism 