Modern Romanticism

Fatal silhouette,
who would you be
when you are reminding me
of what cannot be?
I am losing the ideal,
helping myself, letting myself
let go of your hand,
letting you fall
to those unknown depths.

You remain, in mind,
choosing to be behind
under earth, buried to be
the kin of your kind.

You remain as a stain
on this damaged heart,
strangled by its own veins,
written upon itself
with ink of blood.

Distant reflection,
if you are meaning to stay,
then stay if not to stray
from this gathered weather.

You are overhead,
among a collection of clouds,
without thunder, with life,
while going on
with me, as your light.