Modern Romanticism

Imperfect moment
when you walked onward,
as I paced in a perfect circle.
I ruminate on what
we never were,
losing track of time,
never counting minutes
that past moments
will become.

This divide, this road
has been carved to go,
with anguish in tow.
This pain, these teardrops
will create the craters,
countless within coming years
that will not ever stop.

What will you
ever begin to burn for?
I was your spark,
your light to ignite
your darkness,
even in spite
of what we were losing.

Our flesh, once as one,
will become the soil
to rebuild another's garden,
from another's aching toil.

Reviewing our aftermath
rewrites nothing among pages,
rendered in immaculate,
embittered emptiness.