Modern Romanticism

Thickening rust,
under a thousand flakes
of flavorless dust.
Counting those fallen leaves,
while holding hands
with a vanishing ghost.

When were we ever meant
to unite our silver pictures?

Gold had become gray
in this absence of day.

I had been that close
to keeping you close,
though you kept burning
your colors, into monochrome.

Light had been weathered
through a shroud,
a brittle frame.

Concealed, while connected
in a place where we
were never resurrected.