Modern Romanticism

How were you able
to relieve it, to deceive it
when rain came to be caught
in your eyes, encrusted with iron,
encrusted with blood?

You knew what we were losing
of what we could not get back.
You know its cost, as our limbs
were painted on a cross.
We drained all those hours
upon withering flowers.

Nothing had been meant
to be returned to its sender.
Of sold hearts,
never to be replaced,
never to be repaired.

How were you able to relieve it,
without reliving it, without recalling
that sickness that keeps me stalling
one healing process that is caught,
between structures of rust?

How am I able to believe it?
You can keep refusing a change,
while I remain the same.
You can resist that urge
to turn around, to see me
stuck in that soundless town.