Modern Romanticism

You were given time,
with a second pair
of loose hands
as your light,
with each moment
passing with the release
of one person’s grasp
that didn’t matter.

I took you into me,
for I had been thinking
you were one eternal,
lasting blessing.

You took this to mean
that something must be
always wrong with it -
to be wrong to commit.

Seconds were the minutes,
as minutes were the hours
that’ll lead you into
the direst form of infinity.

Each grain of sand
slipped from your fingers,
burning them into glass
for your broken reflection.

It didn’t matter
what had come first,
or what will come later,
when everything
is just something
for you to consider.

It’s something
for you to expect
will shatter,
will be the fertilizer
for the graves
that you tend to.