Modern Romanticism

Can I come crying
to pale-white surfaces?
Your shoulders are those
placements, to a sculpture –
a cold depiction
of flesh, made of winter.

Under blocked sunlight,
attempting to withdraw
tears, back into a freezing heart.
Who am I to declare there
to be wrong, in death,
in depleted breath?

Who am I to understand
the call, from the source
of love’s majesty?

I have taken your hand.
I have bled into your state
a common dismissal,

for I refuse to leave
your warmth, your aura
that, in this undressed moment,
creeps into another corner
I extinguish myself, to follow.