Modern Romanticism

The sky is not
deep enough.
I’m facing it,
twisting knots,
desperate to not
come undone.

The ocean is not
far enough,
holding the same color
as bruises I bare,
with full shame
for their stains.

I’ve hurt in this location
for the seconds
I stopped counting
once an eon arose.

I’ve been dreaming
without knowing
the difference between
my void and my voice.

Craters are asymmetrical
after my tears fall
as colorless shapes,
from a formless state.

I’m drifting
on a vessel of my
unmaking.