Ink droplets from open wounds,
a scent on a porcelain wrist.
Wrinkled promises, stained letters
sent into slowing winds,
for I have forgotten these reasons,
our reasons, to flower.
To wilt. To wilt, when rain is all
that remains to raise an ocean
to drown a garden,
one that lacks its sunlight.
Counting burning petals,
wondering which one had mattered
until infernos clashed with oil
that hugged our reflections,
ones that became bruised, in firelight.
A burning night, needed to
sink all yearning to our cores.
Hellish fever. Outside from
Heaven’s surrender,
while we disclose prayers to darkness,
never seeking hope’s fragile glow.
What are we, when beneath,
at our feet, all trails turn to snow?
I am here, drawing your presence
as a fading circle,
a surrounding spread of dust,
at no longer an embrace
of imminence.
Modern Romanticism 