Modern Romanticism

Finding you, burning you
into a deep den of memories,
only for you to continue
your march into a different,
direction, where depth
has another's tune.

Love had boiled, feelings
were what we toiled
to upkeep their symmetry.

Now that we are parted,
has the sky stayed blue
in your corner,
to the north?

Have snows stayed pure,
printing your footprints
in places I can't follow?

I did not decide,
upon the inside
to ever love,
while I undressed
old wounds,
old fates I thought
were long erased.

It was a gesture
that simply stuck
to your transparent,
golden skin.

I kept promising
what I should have
said only once.

I kept rehearsing
what should have
been most natural.