Modern Romanticism

It was the rose
that told you to go
in hiding –
finding your shadows
the betterment,
the fulfillment,
leaving me with emptiness,

surrounded by
leaves, painted dry
with deadness.

You were telling me
the weather could not lift
your foul garden,
while our tears
ran down to mouths
that could not connect,

while exhaling,
pushing our corners
to fold.

We paused, in memory
of what fell into ruin;
are you looking back
to see the one,
the naked one
left to love no one?

I am killing this heart,
hanging it from its veins,
while letting it drain
a precious hope,
as it is, too,
another rope.