Modern Romanticism

You come through
a door left open
for a stream of thoughts
to enter without
an invitation.

I do not want this haunt,
but you are here
always in place of my
drifting sanity.

I’m enclosed, while you
make this crawl space
a mansion with hallways
echoing your cry.

I am following
where tears are flowing.
I am not connecting
what dots were arranged
for me to find meaning
in anything other than
this fever dream.

I am not thinking about
where else I can apply
the four winds,
after they’re always
pushing me into
your phantom arms.

You hold your suffering
skyward, letting loose
your bold-red,
poisonous hate.

Because this was never
the color of love,
budding to be what
finds a way
to takeover in one
glistening play.