Modern Romanticism

It’s not like what
love songs write about,
during days too storied,
nights too silent.

It’s the cold
I lend my worry
when to winter’s white,
there is revision,
there’s recollection.

It’s not like what
preachers preach about,
when love is their muse,
their repeated reasoning.

It’s the hand,
missing from its spot
within mine.

It’s this world
that swims without
needing a breeze.

It’s the sickness
that stirs in warmth -
a fever from overhead,
a Hell with its cause.

A bite, or a sting
has replaced you,
leaving your memory
wired within heat,
lingering in defeat.

It’s no salvation
that provides its touch
of understanding.

It’s just what I savor
during days of no flavor
left on my tongue.