I swear you had – at those spaces, you had
felled tears at smaller rainfalls, lessened storms,
remembered where to walk
your limping gait, to that final stop
where you were meant to wait
for another smile to bring you clear skies,
for another pair of eyes
to send you apart from bitterness.
I swear it, that when you were less tragic,
you’d find your consolation
in someone else’s softened heart.
I faltered at it, these thoughts of you
to find another sacrifice at one more time.
Instead, you nestle in your heart of cold,
recognizing nothing more that old.
You are those grains, infinite,
sprawling. You see, though tears in
simplest, catastrophic vision.
You’ll wait at that final stop,
hearing your heart, where it beats,
though feeling it more
with a hand taking no one else,
down a path of dimmed light
towards somewhere you believe
will be almost right.
Almost, for in this answer,
discovered among burns, throughout
wrong turns, you are needing.
To no longer want
means to no longer crave.
To be here, to need
means to be, at last, saved.
Modern Romanticism 