Modern Romanticism

I leak my color
upon thin shards,
remembering my frame,
being conscious
towards everlasting shame.

I face an anchor
that will drop
from one of Heaven’s cliffs.
I am too stagnant
to send for its stability,
too inanimate
to even appreciate
how movement stopped.

How are you running on,
like rivers carved from mirrors,
as tears born of reflection?

How are you seeking shelter,
holding your hands against rain,
putting pressure against pain?

I once kissed what promised to be
a tourniquet around a bleeding vein,
a porcelain hand that stretched
in reaching for a familiar stain.

You identified, you signified,
though you decided to turn away.
You amplified, you recognized
what keeps me frozen this way.