Modern Romanticism

It deliberates,
moving inside itself
from tides to doors.
You revolve around
a single second
to matter.

Your chosen subtlety
is exclusive for a page,
the ending created
in dire secrecy.

Filling in blanks
with whispers,
with faces
you have never
remembered,
or ever seen.

Repeated falsehoods,
distinguishing an ideal
from what’s real.

Broken wish,
a misused kiss
for a life not lived.

Bankrupt,
over teeming spoils,
delivering heartbeats
to the quiet space
of a grave
you’ve saved.