Modern Romanticism

Open veins,
a tissue to accompany
a teardrop’s epiphany.
Something is smeared
upon these floors,
as water comes near.

I cannot convene,
cannot converse
in bleeding verse,
as these wounds
heal in reverse.

I am backtracking
to where light had begun
a moment, one that lasted
near a rising sun.
I remember all that entered
into this skeletal frame.
I added no color,
being blinded as a newborn,
darkened in sight
under love’s wake.

Though that was a droplet deep,
a great downpour leaves these eyes,
creates these trails
for no one else to follow.

No one, except for the one
who notices blood leaving wounds,
but has nothing to offer,
when they’ve have shifted to be
that moon that haunts me,
keeps me wandering
even while asleep.