Bold nights. Centered frights.
I wake to find you
less than a note away
on a scale of burning
sheet music.
To shadows, that escape
with greater speed
than fading sunlight.
You will be morphed
with all your sunset curves.
You will be more distant,
than when you dimmed.
You will be blackened
at connections of heat,
becoming further
than stagnant distance.
Fires extinguish
at a bottle of tears,
worshipping all that
grows a garden of fears.
One rose, once gentlest,
in how thorns
caused you to cry.
Petals lose their scent
as all feelings
will eventually die.
But memories are close,
lifted in song –
but buried within
closed doors of a mind
that finds itself,
in embracing corridors –
in all spaces,
our anguish retains.
Once dripping
from passionate fingers,
here for tracing
of entrenched stains.
A presence fallen,
at its crest, while I am unaware
at where you’ll enter next.
To bleed in being devoured,
from a repeated need
from a drained,
discolored flower.
Modern Romanticism 