Modern Romanticism

I’ve felt it
in your pattern,
in your sickness.

It’s what’s worse
when it gets better
than what gets worse,
when what’s better
is what I’m blinded by
when I’m filling in
those uncovered spots
to mute your cry.

I’ve seen it
even when seeing
the darkness inside
the infected wounds
you don’t hide
when I’m here to
relieve you.

I’ve seen you
for what you are,
while I let myself be
your colorless mask,
your disguise.

I am a drowning vessel,
saving nothing else when
I lose track of myself,
even on your ocean
of obvious clues.

There’s no wind,
as there needn’t be,
when I am automatic
in what I sense,
when running towards
the pools of blood
at your feet.