I re-envisioned someone in a different state. A new world. Another pathway. She drew herself back into collapse, as all things, all memories would fade in her shadow. I drew her in, I carried her home. Many times, I brought her into open arms. Would they close? Would they ever truly close? I embraced an icicle. It wouldn’t melt, as arms were nothing but that which she confirmed as only to her familiarity. To her, arms would leave. To her, arms would dissipate, like fog before sunlight rises. It had been for sunlight to also leave. For fog remained, whether with or without sun, and she stood there not ever concealing anything.
I loved, for what I could know. Whereas she blanketed her mind in an emptiness that gave her grace. To step across feeble places, to find herself trapped; as that was, to her, something of a reminder. As memories faded, they’d return at the simplest gesture – of a pair of arms that were open, like gates or a broken dam, and she’d run to that sight. She’d run, take in, and soon find herself mourning before anything ever began.
She’d bleed from wide-open veins, of a color identical to a sunset. While nothing would rise to meet her lips, driven as taste of something bitter, while all to realize would be what falls. To crimson, to fire in rays of a distant, disappearing warmth, all of that falls to kiss her feet, to remind her of something that begs. For what? For what knows its own inevitability. To be inadequate. To be insufficient. To be faulted, like all human matter of flesh that breaks, that wilts, that grows old, though she won’t subside to that. She won’t embrace, because she won’t close chapter after bleak and somber chapter. She won’t close booklets of musical notes, of those that speak her grief to stars that are received with her blindness. She won’t see light, as it makes its presence, since despite a rising sun being also inevitable, she’ll only close that day to remind her of what fell.
To her feet, from her eyes, and back again. To her heart, from damaged recollections, and forward again to repeat itself.
Modern Romanticism 