Modern Romanticism

Outside the twist,
I had thought we were
over it. Another guess
that fails to understand
the hope for it,
the ropes with it,
tying it down.

I am comparable
to your exhausted side,
trembling under your
idle weights,
those that hang
around your feet.

You are compared,
always, to my
burning, churning side.
I haven’t come to regret
the room I shout from,
standing alone
in this emptiness.

We’re brought back,
dragged back, beneath
the silk of a thousand
memorable, removable
embedded sheets.

We’ll continue to cover
the pain with another stain,
another excuse to set
the sickness, being witnesses
to how we become undone.

We’ll continue to further
our caressing blood flow,
waiting for the stars
to come out, to play with
our redrawn scars.