Modern Romanticism

It’s common to hear me
speaking, while undressing
sadness from closing wounds.
It’s common to see a turnaround,
hoping for sunlight’s shadows
to begin drawing another chapter
in ever-darker ink.

A torch, dimly lit,
with a heart held of each vein
with hands that have pulled apart
their connection, without disconnection
at fertile memories, going white
under clouds where tears
will run out,

and I keep finding ways
to pull another stitch
finding its way
to close a wound.

A scar leaves itself
as an unpaid tattoo,
or an engraving upon
a headstone made from
common dust,

because in fading clouds
to clear, blue skies,
I want to keep crying
to relive a sickness that keeps
reopening a heart that gets older,

colder with these needless breaths,
wearied with backwards steps.