Modern Romanticism

Here you are
to lead this ruin,
as I become
someone smothered
under my own
futile pleas.

I have become
another screw
becoming loose
from mere fingers,
deserting blood
exiting from the strain
to be removed.

I have left
water, where lips
are never quenched,
clenching to warmth
when it's a fever.

What is a droplet
of sweat, when it is
all that ever falls?

What is a teardrop
when it descends to
an untended garden?

I have lasted
if that means to
bring back your light,
keeping me awake
in this dream
of unending deceit.