Modern Romanticism

You deceive,
in order to ignore
the one who bleeds
for more. For no more
could be given,
as I stand, naked,
on this scarred shore.

I am leaking history
behind me. What’s behind me?
What else, if I’ve been letting go
of your trail, to set sail
into that undressed sunset?

I am letting myself believe
in shrouding quilts,
in oceans that conceal a garden
abandoned, for how it wilts.

What else can I believe,
when you’ve taken apart
all that I must leave?

Just a smoking shadow
that reenters a mirror,
repeatedly.

Just a vase
containing a collection
of dead flowers,
once held close
for their resurrection.