Modern Romanticism

Spent heart, final remark
to send me wishing for a second
that will lift you from a fading scar.
Tired eyes, written reprise,
while these lips ache for more
to burn after, to burn before
I walk ahead, again.

My eyes drop countless spots
with similar angles,
to mirror a reflection,
your resurrection.

Your hand slipped with the rain,
that dances off rough pebbles,
on a wide, bruised shore,
where an occasional stoning
has been held, to remind me
of what’s destined to leave,
to repeat itself, in time.

I was never sheltered,
I was always shadowed
in what I clung to,
deceiving any future
to be nothing but this spin
that keeps answers
going in circles,

towards questions that guess
when the past will stop following.