Viewing what fades.
Like a pencil that redraws
an erased outline, in cobbled
roadways. You fade
in me, though come again
in stiff, morbid memory.
I want to heal these lungs,
before breathing next.
I hurt. I don’t bleed
this soil enough
to be red. As I never
lose enough,
to be dead.
You are a sunset
who shines a savored second,
before blacking out.
I want to lie about happiness,
I want to weep without
remembering those floods
that took us apart,
in closest arms.
Kept, to be. Left to be
another forgotten pebble
on a gravel roadway.
Even those impoverished,
those who have held
their slumping forms against
lifelike walls,
are turning away
from where I fell.
You hear me climbing,
though you won’t reach me.
You’ll blanket me,
you’ll forget me
in a dim method of comfort.
You want to recede me,
to wish for me
to disappear as any star
pulling its own light along,
like a weight, along
a dusty universe.
Modern Romanticism 