Modern Romanticism

A circle is encouraging me
to keep following it
to where it’s leading me
back to the start,
back to where
you’re not there.

I flood a pair
of crystalline eyes
with the blur
that adds itself
to a line I’ve drawn
in the sand.

It’s a line that once
divided a trusted kindness
from a scorned cruelty
to keep me knowing
what I fought for.

I am not sure
of what is left
for a whole ocean
to bring in,
upon its waves.

I have to be reminded
that this ocean
was made from the tears
I forget to swallow.

There’s bitterness
to be rejected,
as there’s the anguish
being left unchecked.

I want what others have,
digging into these dreams
to bring back nothing
except for a handful
that becomes a mouthful
of tasteless ash.

I’ll spit much of it out,
while I recognize
that it’ll come back
to be that sole thing
that knows why
I have cried.