Modern Romanticism

Repeat what you said
in the wilderness
of your choosing.

You cared not for
what we’ve uncovered
of our hearts, ablaze.

I’m the last petal
to fall from your tree,
moving on to winter,
while you crawl
with leaves you rewater
from a downpour
of fresh tears.

You’re desperate
in your trembling grasp
of spring’s green,
jumping repeatedly
into hope’s well.

I had never been
your missing piece.
I remain as another
speck of ash to collect
from your greatest,
latest eruption.

I at least hoped
I wasn’t alone on a shore
littered with echoing shells,
stumbling over voids,
bleeding on shards.