Modern Romanticism

Bereaving the north,
though I must, without much
left to see to its details,
see to someone who denies
the world with its light.

Into shallows, into shadows,
beguiling the one who
erupts a desperate call
from her burning throat.

She repeats, she's in defeat,
while I fill the holes I see
with fixated eyes,
with assertive gravity.

Going forward, with a torch
pressed of its handle,
to create a wishful impression
that there has been someone
who is igniting the way.

To her smile, to console her
for one intimate while,
I'll begin to sustain those
missing heartbeats of hers,
sealing cracks, representing
what starts to grow back.

I am ending her hurdles,
while drawing back my breath
to find out the emptiness
in me, that came too late,
to see, how often I'll break
to lessen her hurt.

Now, I'm bound, not for home,
but to her agony, far from
anything else to recognize.

I have words of resentment,
building up my own eruption,
writing a story I can't tell.