Feeling faint, drifting saint,
passing a word through your mouth,
letting it leak out,
running with the highways
from your eyes, with your tears,
with smoke from your past,
where brakes never existed
in sending you across,
in letting you stop.
But I’ll come down
to your knees, on my knees,
soaking you in sunlight,
dreaming with your delicate mind
of what can come at night,
of what can stay in sight.
I’ll tear down curtains
to hold you, overhead,
while I wash your brittle flesh,
beyond consuming death.
I’ll keep you hoping
with daytime against your eyes,
for what runs naked
among morning skies,
for what keeps dreaming
in reflections of your cries.
Modern Romanticism 