Modern Romanticism

Who knows that brightness?
Alike, miserable, and alike,
with brittleness to each of her
feathers of wings, tresses that bring
highlights to wounded words,

and am I finding answers
in these scars? Am I erasing anything
when all I have found,
could ever find –

is her barrenness?

A field,
an exploration of these feet,
over her flesh,
wandering to find,
to remind a mind
of a love where I poured
endlessness into endlessness,

and found a reusable strength
to hurl a light into an abyss.

I strangle these notes,
bite through these words,
fold pages into pauses,
moments into memories,
and repeat a song
I did not want to memorize
when it leaves me,
when waves leave me
crushed, upon a shore,

faulted, far from doors,
far from distances
and no more to explore.