Modern Romanticism

Backing slowly
towards that breach
in the crust,
the thinning fabric
of your reality.
I've always left a place
for your head to rest,
in an echoing aperture.

I've always checked
for your pulse,
in the rush that goes nowhere,
always diving in
to pull you within
a burial of outspread arms.

You kept leaving
cracks among hallways
littered with dust.
Your reflection, depicted,
always in portraits,
being scattered
as colorless debris,
along candlelit walls.

Who am I
to mourn you,
while you behave
in this manner,
reveling in everything
you continue to crave?

You've glimmered
without needing someone
to grant you their touch.
You've retreated,
without needing anyone
to guide you back.