Modern Romanticism

Faced away
from the name,
from the one,
from the burning sun.
I lost track
of your footsteps,
stepping, care-free
through fragments of time
that never rewind.

Who are you
to see the snow,
before it melts?
What have you done
to shield this home
from waters that entered,
uninvited, from fogged eyes?

You drifted on a plank,
while I set sail for months
to wonder if anything was left
to bring aboard.

I reached a desolate shore,
finding nothing to save
but endless shells
with their rhythmic echoes.

Blood follows me home,
as I turned back
towards a disused day.
You remain crawling
inside these hallways,
these branching veins,
this singing heart.

Nothing goes on
but the seconds spent
inside those spaces
where reflections are gone.