Dig me in
from previous disassociation,
for you are the one drug
to keep me running
on a guess,
makeshift on an excuse,
blinded to another’s
fires of warning.
Undressed skin,
disrobed eyes;
the leaves you walk upon
are brittle,
only in disguise.
I can’t seem to fear you,
as our faces are smeared
in the white.
In the white,
where outlines are drawn,
we were touching
more than what I felt was forever,
rubbed against your naked shore.
In the bleak,
where dust falls from rust,
I find myself entering
the smoke, the fog where you sail,
though I can’t seem to fear you,
listening to your heartbeat,
even among the fading heat
where your body was,
where your trail
cannot be covered,
can always be recovered.
Modern Romanticism 