I always turn
to see you, in mirrors,
drawing smoke from your lungs,
with an aura of bleakness
aboard, in your eyes,
while tears, have left trails
for hollow footprints
to be anything
but a temptation.
It has meaning.
Cremating this heart,
while death still holds
a faint breath
from a tragic smile,
a gleaming lock
of withering hair –
all symbols to release
a sickness you keep,
returning your heart’s contents,
from a speechless throat
into empty hands.
I do love,
though I cannot
offer to bury you, again,
without reliving that sound,
thumping like footsteps,
over wasted earth.
Modern Romanticism 