Modern Romanticism

Whichever disdain
she chooses, in vain,
has always wrapped her
thin wrists, tired feet
for repeated defeat.

She's used to this,
counting bruises,
while she returns a kiss
back to a hidden womb.

She begins her plight,
weeping within her nights,
believing in everything worse,
in nothing better.

I call her close,
relieving her, at a dose
of simple words,
uttered from a face,
one she cannot
rewrite nor retrace.

I want her to remember
genuine warmth,
when I place a single hand
on her heart, one that beats
in constant fear,
while the other hand
wipes aside her tears.

She'll drift back into
those uncovered shadows,
while I remember
her light, her canvas,
what color she'll desert
in greater favor for hurt.