Modern Romanticism

Silence is your golden arrow
piercing me through
the throat, where words hide,
where promises thrive.

You know what I let into you,
when you thirsted over
everything you had insisted
was of dire importance.

It was always your life,
never at all the strife
affecting the perseverance
I was presenting.

You are standing there,
with arms outstretched.

What else will be next,
if not to save your breath?

You speak of nothing
for you never wanted this.

I gave you a kiss, from afar,
meaning to grant hope
to become better
than where you are.
You speak of nothing
about what crippled me,
of what changed me
into something I can’t undo
for the miles to come.