Modern Romanticism

Whose sun was rising
in your vacant direction?
Another clipse, another wish
left to the passing stars.
You weren’t ablaze
with their touch,
just as you cannot
find yourself
able, to have me
as I will be.

I am burning, here,
covered in dust,
awaiting your space
to reopen, with the numbers
falling away
into the forgetful grey.

But I am losing
what I cannot recover,
being this heart, confounded
in an echo. Are you ever
more along, than anyone else?
Are you ever content
in your ample needs?

Are you ever able
to see me, when I need your
face to turn this way?
Reenter another, and then let
this one absorb your wounds,
lighting your cold wicks
with kisses that stick.

But are you seeing
what stands, who has lifted
themselves up, to see
your life on a limited path?
Are you ever able
to find comfort in the dark,
where the universe set a sun
to awaken another one?

I am no one special
in the loose debris
of your scarlet openings,
upon your soul –
one that keeps itself damaged,
skinless, vulnerable,

and never whole.