Modern Romanticism

It’s a recurrence,
this standing devout
nature of being within
your shattered mind.

I’m hearing your hurt,
hating myself
for what I can’t cure.

I’m breathing in
rawest vapor
of your calamity.

Ashes against me
are burning
only on the outside.
To this, you hope
your pain to subside.
For this, you expect
the other shoe to drop.

From white,
back into black,
my growing fever
was my sole way
to bring myself away
from being a sacrifice.

From black,
over into white,
you hoped for an eternity
of positioned protection.

It’s not enough,
when love would be.
It isn’t love
to be what breathes
for you.