Tell your soul
to part ways.
Drift on that pathless
highway. Go nowhere.
Filter a vacant light,
somewhere. Fill your spaces,
your voids of where I lasted
with repeated, defeated,
endless toiling.
Split your gaze,
fork your tongue.
Let your clouds disconnect,
and disguise what
you’ll always resurrect.
I know you.
I know that you
will cling to thin strands,
like your hair that goes gray
under adjacent monochrome
of another dismal day.
Drift. Sift through
ashes of another memory.
Remember bruised,
bloodied kisses.
Surrender to misused,
tasteless bitterness.
I have given shape.
I have given form
to your fragile nakedness.
Touched, under shelter.
Burned in a smelter.
Written onto bedsheets,
onto pages without endings,
carried into ages
without time’s mending.
Modern Romanticism 