Modern Romanticism

I look into eons,
awakening my eyes,
under a velvet, hazy sky,
expecting to see an aftermath
of a night of cold
for flesh, so old.

Instead, that cold granted me warmth,
steady in my isolation.

A pillow, on my left side
reminds me of a deserting rose.
A petal that had fallen
on the floor of this burning room
reminds me,
merely of its delicacy.

Again, I begin to lift sunlight
from my flesh, inviting winter
back into these folds
of skin, of sheets
immaculate upon their toll
to keep me buried,
while awaiting newest sleep.

Loving to forget,
hating to remember
at any sign upon a rolled-out lane,
that covers could shield me
into a painless dark.

What was light, without its burn?
What had been the nighttime,
without its eventual turn?