Modern Romanticism

Symptoms come loose,
screams come close –
sounds that have exited,
only to return
with more danger.

I’ve remembered each time
you have severed yourself,
outside this wall of fog.
Connected in exhalation,
disconnected without remission.

You’ve respected that burn.
A fever, a torch to illuminate
your disorder, in being
someone who remains broken.
You count shards
like how I count fingerprints,
upon your form –
a vase to hold dead flowers.

Can you count your footsteps
out that exit? I’ll stay
to be this witness for your
unwelcome illness.

When it returns,
whenever you return to relieve
your sin, upon discolored skin,
these eyes will sting
in tears you neglect to bring.