Modern Romanticism

I reminisce,
I keep quiet
what little I’ve left
to lose under these
dark, falling pieces.

Brittle bones
have lost their place,
have been reminding
this mind, into torment
upon the rewinding
aftermaths.

Burning crowds
look upon me,
as I release three words
of desperate reunion
over the possibility
of reentrance.

I want what didn’t last
on time’s uncertain flow.

I want what I didn’t know
recedes with cruel fate.

It stayed,
for the briefest second,
just to let me see
that there are cuts
I cannot bleed from.

They’re there
to have me face
a mirror, a dissection
of my fragility.

It’s outside the ivory
of a thousand panicked,
tension-filled footsteps
in the snow.