Modern Romanticism

You’ve translated it,
the scenes you hold onto,
the ones that I
would not remember,
when I had tried
to have it severed.

You’ve shown tears,
while I’ve forced sunlight
out from a pair of eyes
I no longer recognize.

You weep into the night,
while I’ve been dreaming
of the moon, its phases,
its command to escape.

I am realizing
that what I left behind
means the most,
because it is gone.

It’s been on display
among the tallest
of naked, autumn trees,
with stretching branches
to invite me closer.

You’ve been there,
drowning in the blue,
while I’ve been lost
within the white.