Modern Romanticism

I swore to sincerity
when her world revealed
a thinning line,
one that those who
ever crossed it
would be erased,
in due time.

I handed her a rose,
one already wilting.
I spoke what I
believed cannot be
a promise, in the form
of an imperfect circle
to constrict a finger.

I told her what I
cannot believe to be
ever possible,
ever true, when I
am just as wounded,
bleeding just like
her heart, out at sea.

She's been a lost gull,
begging to passersby
for her satiation.

But she's been closing
lover's coffins, one at a time,
burying the accused.

For her, I build
what will, I realize,
fall with utmost grace
into a thousand
faceless cards.

With her, I give
a sort of looseness,
devoting nothing
in a process of merging
my blood in her flood.