Modern Romanticism

A vacant space,
a sight from your eyes
is where truth was devoured,
where deceit is flowered.

There’s more to know
before the ashes
disguise your trail,
reignite your sails.

You come calling
with bitterness
on your frozen lips.

You won’t speak
from not a dark storm
you’re carrying.

Wanting me to be here
to cradle your regret,
to leave you feeling
like someone understood,
when no one did.

You retreat,
bleeding in the dark,
wrapped in clipped wings,
depriving your heart
of testimony.

It’s just the leaves,
among those you count
to always leave,
when the sun
burns out,
when ugliness
turns up.