Modern Romanticism

In me,
you’re buried,
to be either forgiven
or forgotten,
since I do not know
which comes first.

You’re the scenery
that fells its leaves,
that appears beautiful
even in this haze
of frost and decay.

You’re the whirlwind
leaving behind traces
scattered for miles,
singing a blank note
upon the gale.

Buried in me,
you’ve frozen time,
you’ve been bleeding
from fragments
stained with your name,
filtered from shame.

You’ve left your mark
for me to know
no better than what
I’ve come to hide.

Your retrieval
is its own ceremony
that’s celebrated
through testimony.