Modern Romanticism

The touch, one I felt
when days were crossed
always over, in our
beautiful way.

The remains, that which
stayed, even when
you went far away
on your own.

I am still here,
adoring that spot
where I swear that I
still hear your heartbeats,
still feel your skin
during days of delicate,
amorous sin.

White clouds,
explicit fairness.
All of them are trailing
their film of vapor,
while keeping
their connection
to Heaven.

Even so, they are just as
violent as your departure
from perceived Hell.

Whatever it could be,
I hoped you were
no more than that.
A simple seed
deserted its position,
deprived itself
of graceful admission,
denying the garden
of added color.

Whatever we’d ever be,
we will never be,
when it can only be
one source of light,
one sun, one that creates
a frigid shadow
you ran from.