Modern Romanticism

Connect me back to
your shape, your gravity
that kept me whole,
kept me from breaking
into jagged parts.

What was before
became nothing more
than a memory
that yearns to arrive
in the place
where footsteps
are ceremonial.

Love’s golden circle
has made itself
to be an imprint of a far,
escaping landscape
where oceans cannot
come through to flood,
while faces stare
where sounds don’t dare
to interrupt.

All that was before
has been shelved on high,
among stars speckling
an absent future.

I am never here
when I want to climb
to see what was before
I became no more.

For I am living
in a puddle, without
knowing what direction
to swim towards,
sealing myself in this
state of shallowness.