Modern Romanticism

Talking through funnels,
with wind being here,
sensing the danger
inside the twists.

I've sent love
through a folded letter,
dousing a final page
in what little I imagined
can be contained,
in the white.

It ran its course
through your mind,
if it had ever
found its way
into your hands.

What did you think,
when pieces came together,
for one more time?

Under a warming sun,
you can bleed it out;
but were you?

Serrated edges,
deciding the worth
of a fatal pledge.

I wanted what
can connect your heart
to solid earth.

I have been gone
for the hundredth time,
while I have recited
those words,
up to their
last letter.