I live. Your streaming fingers
trace veins where should be scars,
pass along scars where should be
your hollow kisses.
I keep connecting you
to those long pathways
where I deserted old photographs,
where I left those notes
that described all your details.
I want, though cannot
bury you, again, in a heart
made to somehow
keep beating.
You are cemented in corridors,
added as each block
to build a congested hallway.
All feelings clogged,
clotted in broken arteries
of these long stretches,
past where you tremble,
along where you soared
while you hear me screaming
every word of submission.
Those loose knots,
tight entanglements.
All irreparable symptoms
becoming clarity’s sickness.
Those connected wires
that no longer bind,
with those sudden tremors
before all tensions that blind –
I delved into your weeping heart
to exit outside of mine.
All this longing
combined with all this echoing,
as I am passing a sobbing voice
down an eternal expanse,
represents you in passion’s fire,
leaves you reflected in water
that stains these fingertips
from shallow puddles
in earthen eyes.
Modern Romanticism 