A broken vow
has drawn its dividing line,
while a pair of lips
drew out your message
from a heart,
one that beats
with backwards footsteps.
You cross another turn,
drawing that target,
though aligned centrally,
being split evenly
as if you could accompany
what tears us, between,
when see-through clouds
become like dirtied hands.
Your admittance comes
with sacrifice to your presence.
You find value in eyeing storms,
while lessening approach
of bitterness, which might
soak your stains
into careful clarity.
Who are you
leaving yourself
alone with,
backtracking your body,
tired in its expense,
though waiting for another caress
to bring you into further
muteness?
Modern Romanticism 