Modern Romanticism

You've let me into
these pages, read at
a brimming twilight.
You've let me fall
onto a heart, made of
moldable silver,
receiving sign after sign
from a lighthouse.

I'll continue this draft,
writing without remorse
for whatever comes next
upon the white,
from the light.

Are you seeing
this unending repetition
that will keep us tangled?
I've been questioning
for too long.
I've been rewriting
the same old verse,
without anywhere
to let it belong.

But if I continue
these words, sculpted for
marble chairs to be seated,
I'll hesitate to contemplate
on all we've designed,
if it means to release
all I'll increase.

Hanging it somewhere,
upon the weather that stains
frozen paragraphs,
the white smothered in black.
Weeping to this second
that always moves backwards,
after it sprints forward.

A moment that retracts
its own outline
into a bleeding memory.