Modern Romanticism

Only when
I choose, to come in –
always within
the haze of a fearless night,
you are tragic.
You brought your burial
into town, leading the fire
for your frail, vacant eyes.

You want this. Holding out
your seconds like naked flesh,
letting your words slip
with the crudeness of dust.

I am the witness.
I have lost, upon what
might have been
a singular, in the place
of a division.

I receive your kiss.
The heat upon your gaze,
accompanies softness
in the haze, in the smoke
of forests being burned,

in your remembrance.

Nothing could remain simple,
as nothing would remain sound.
A simple piece of velvet
is laid atop your breast –
a symbol to the kindness
you were deserved,

though for its sake,
you were never reserved.