Modern Romanticism

Something manifests,
while someone travels
outside of reach.

They've been looking for
a different place,
for their second phase
apart from me.

They've been wandering
without much space
for memories,
for scattered cards.

Faces linger
with subtle signs,
separated traces,
as words that hang
off a tongue's edge
are just residue.

Someone is roaming
a long mile where wind
keeps shifting direction,
but not their direction.

Someone has abandoned
these long hallways,
filled in morning's entrance,
a sunset's fragments.

It was always where
warmth was of a foreign
exhibit of hope.

You wouldn't take it,
choosing to smother it,
with ice on your shoulder.