Modern Romanticism

I've given in,
giving to the one
who sings her sweet,
vaporous whispers.
She lives in me,
burning my throat
with all the answers
I might resurrect.

Because I'll burn down
what I, for a second,
come to regret.

But I'll raise it up
when she smiles,
when she cries
for more than a while.

A moment of sense
doesn't keep me,
as it reminds me
of an unfiltered purpose.
I am designed
for this stained effort,
dirtying my hands
after she injects me
with her flavor.

All around, there is fog
that blinds the avenue
towards freedom's beckoning,
signaling starved light.

I am always lost
in her presence,
though I eventually
feels what this costs.

Will I be here,
forever to drain myself,
not in what I see,
but in what I hear?