Modern Romanticism

I cannot make out a breath,
lost among silver pathways
straight into desertion,
since she’s released her own
into that crowd.

A disappearance,
a repeated reappearance
that I couldn’t bring back
to its original way.
It became lost
on its silver streak,
with tears remaking trails,
having fear as its sails.

She’s a tower high,
an anchor low.
I am kneeling into a grave,
finding nothing to save
but those pieces of something
I could have left to always blame
for pain I cannot name.

I am always remembering this,
with soil to stain these lips.

Who will I write to,
when I am coming to
from a respite, from sleep
when ink is the sadness I keep?

In exploring hollow veins,
there is a passage that returns
for its spoken, broken tone,
giving no life to a stone.