Modern Romanticism

A leaf must be
separated from the herd,
parted from the rest
that fell from the same tree,
got lost from the same
outstretched arm.

You’ve always
counted up to one,
deciding that number
is better than none.

You are always
reviewing the seasons
within chaos,
where its change
remains your name.

You are always
unaware of what follows,
melted into a shadow
staying as a fever
to coat your cheeks
in their redness.

You last a little longer
than a common delusion,
digging out memories
while not knowing
they’re not fresh wounds.

Come closer
to see what’s next,
when you seek clarity
in the mist,
among the midst
of your aches.

There’s an eternity
to be your relief,
with a history
to learn from,
to be reminded
that it was your leaf
to overturn.