Modern Romanticism

Thin trail.
Following it back
to fear. I am swallowing
these urges,
concealing myself
in blue-framed,
portraits.

I am weeping,
while you go on,
like a cloud,
to separate.

We’ve shared history,
folding page against page,
noting pauses within
awestruck expressions.
I loved to dance
in your words,

though you need this
more than I do,
in what you admit.

To the wrong of our unity,
you’ve unleashed clarity.
In how I submit,
I am eagerly disappointed.

Nothing will drag us back
to reflections in melted snow,
to our heat in what we know
resided in pleasure’s smile.