Modern Romanticism

A burial, beneath
a lighthouse, upon
a weathered shore.
A line had been drawn
to communicate our distance,

as it was
this disassembling passing.

I live to drink
of that last mile,
carving pain into these waters,
hearing my heartbeat
wandering into those depths,
yet yearning for service
beyond this darkness.

I have loved,
remaining as a sinking ship
never deserting its ocean.
I call out for echoes
to return to me,

as they were
our final moment.

There, too profound,
but false beneath that beacon
unable to replace her light:

of cold, marble flesh,
of drawn-out breath.

In desiring the sun,
all I am receiving
is the moon.