Modern Romanticism

Draft the word,
that fatal word
that landed me in an ocean,
tied next to you,
or your ghost.

Touching space, hovering where
your place, your grace
had everything, has everything
even in its emptiness.

I am that wounded dove,
hanging from its neck,
since you left me, to your peace,
leaving me in wild pieces.

I flick the switch.
I hope that light will return
from an extinguished sun.
I hope that you
will find meaning
in these arms,
under these wings,

but you are reminding yourself
of a clean, empty page.