Modern Romanticism

Split apart. Having a
rewritten life, while I'm
remembering when we
were both once like infants,
crying while talking
what no one else
would bother hearing.

Now you are faint.
You are just a soundless
thing to be withdrawn
from, from a space
we once shared.

For you cannot cry.
You cannot even see
what I've let loose
upon the wind.

You have refrained
from ever being
the other draft,
the parts, the pages to a
message in the dust,
where love was once
our lasting sickness.

I've let even this
go on, too long.

I've met myself with
a world that I must
reconnect with,
as you go on,
over lakes, over a
canyon that is filled
with dying echoes.