Modern Romanticism

Here, in these years
I’ve come to know you,
you’ve let your form limp
to be a cover to these pages,
to be a fold upon this story
that stays, to be written.

I unmask you, reveal you,
watering your wounds
to raise to you a bleak Heaven,
hearing your heartbeat
while counting the seconds,
until a storm begins to depart.

You return, to be desired,
as you leave to build your fire.
I am smothering you,
though for all that you require,
nothing true breaches you.

Lovelorn, tossed around
like a leaf into its forgetful,
countless many.

You bleed among the hoard,
tempting each second,
continuing to be abhorred.

Melt yourself. Refuse to,
once more, sell yourself.
Your life is a mystery
not to be discovered,
for its wicked ways,

because you must be wanted
for what’s better than this,
better than momentary bliss.