Modern Romanticism

White pages,
frozen in fragile sympathy,
telling you what I have
always felt,
since I have ever sold
this heart into those ashes.
I continue to revisit
what you have disposed of.

I have kept caring
about a singular second
to speak to you.
Behind these tears,
a man speaks plainly.
Although, he’s speaking
to someone who runs behind
her shelter, her fears.

Upon a collection
of dust, I have placed
precious seconds into shadows,
hoping you will come close
to hear me. I have worked
to displace everything
that disconnected us
from wholeness,

but have you noticed?

Breath of silver,
pages full of white
where sympathies
were your familiar emptiness.
Like mirrors, receiving
an exhale of disappointment,
I am leaving within
a smear of regression.