Modern Romanticism

From an open door,
you've been releasing
a thin vapor,
a clouded favor
to be revealing
your wounds, in one
bleak shiver.

I keep replying
that you are reversing
all that you promised
upon a burning road.

You are sending
words to a distant vision,
revising what you spoke
in further aching syllables.

I'll continue this gaze
on that open door,
knowing you'll come through,
to feel your stagnancy
in its intimacy.

Light is drawn
from half-disconnected,
sundering curtains.
People are moved,
unlike you, when you
speak in diminished vows.

You flood this plane
of existence, with a light,
crude in what it covers,
nude in what it rediscovers.