Holding back –
with one last tear,
bringing me back to those
breaths, vacant from what
emptied me, from love’s overdose.
Abandoning that dark,
reclusive, elusive stage.
Holding in a heart, of its contents,
for a song could not, should not
scream of an emptiness,
too loud – not loud
enough, from pages,
to wordless,
worthless pages.
Whether bedsheets,
or curtains, blood gets
held back.
No blood gets let
through a wound’s covering,
a face’s mask,
a cloud, hovering.
I tear at these chances
to propel what I am,
all that I am not –
of sweetness,
represented as
a fulfilling bitterness.
I hold in the secretion,
condemned in all secrecy.
I fold letters to drown them
under an ocean, beneath a lake
concealed in ice.
Modern Romanticism 