Modern Romanticism

I repeat
words which are
running, to where
you are fleeing –
words that are revealing
distant sounds,
neglected echoes.

You are signaling
for the next arrow
to strike your heart,

and was I
merely the symptom,
before your cure?

You’ve closed our book,
while I’ve reopened
our significance to that last page.
I still see those tearstains
like melted snow,
like pain I know
will blossom a garden
full of weeds, to grow,

sowing what will flow
these stilling heartbeats,
from a space,
where you belonged.