Modern Romanticism

I spoke for her,
for what she said
she has been losing.
I held her in one hand,
cradling her neck,
clenching a swan's frailty.

I swore to her remorse
that all of this can be
reversed into nothingness.

I told her own oaths,
as words came pulsing.
As tears drizzled down,
passing through holes
of ruins, in a winter's
den of stained white,

I blew her candles out,
crisscrossing her shadows.

I let in her demons,
making love to another human,
one I've seen, only when
she's most animated.

We both fell, in our rift,
within her scars,
drying our eyes on pillows,
disregarding our opinion
on the matter.

I felt what I cannot untie,
cannot undo, when it is
the breath for her fire,
the beacon for her boat.