Modern Romanticism

Flesh is pulled.
Let me lie here to count
the stars, before they
are also gone.

Eyes are mounted.
Blind spots are many
while I’m losing count
of what I’ve lost.

There are oceans,
those that have buried
the endless stories
never shelved.

There are hearts
of those who scream,
of those who separate
light from dark.

I am mostly
what I am not,
while I live,
among the gray.

I am dreaming
of faces to forget,
with tears that fade
in the waking day.