Another night in reliving
this squall. Forming tears,
to hurl, overboard,
as I am warming
my wounds on the fire
of what stings in your absence.
A pencil has traced
you, in the looming clouds,
having grayed on your leaving.
I have kept what words
would receive you,
would let you come blooming,
but you would not,
as I am here,
forming tears from empty air.
No one seems to know
where I am, though they can hear
the thunder crawling
from miles, ashore.
They can hear
all that replaces itself,
out of empty air.
Some children are running along
a beach, made of stones,
made of numbness,
while people bathe
in currents, stretching
like arms that cannot take
that light, at a distant lighthouse,
to rectify what will always be
an eternal night.
Modern Romanticism 