Modern Romanticism

Handprint.
Imprint me
in your memory,
though I’ll be restless,
awakening every hour
to keep you sour,
to keep you knowing
of those seeds you’re sowing.

You are walking
across a thin rope,
hanging onto symmetry
in its tainted mimicry.

You are soaking
your eyes, in lakes,
hoping to be shaped
in discrete formations.

Footprint.
Walk aside,
though I’ll be inside,
waiting for you to fall,
waiting for you to call
a name, that comes closer,
to find you lessening
your naked stride.

You’ll turn around.
You’ll wander back to town,
discovering ruins,
as you conceal yourself
once again, under a blanket
of shapeless dust.