Modern Romanticism

Growing worse
in deciding that a fever
keeps our hands warm.
We press against the wound,
but keep opening it,
embedding the infection,

digging into absence
to discover nothing present.

Fire starts, memories burn,
dissolving our storms
when we mistake laughter
for the gift of healing.

It's nothing more than a mask
with different colors shown.
I want to let go, but cannot
undo the knot that stays
tying us to stagnation.

Breaths released,
stories rehearsed,
as details mark all
these old chapters.

Where's the ending?
What do we leave behind,
when winter covers our tracks?

I did love, while I never did
want to imagine that life
will drain a heart faster.