Modern Romanticism

Wash the plate
where you’ve been eating
your spoiled words.

We see rotten declarations,
futile undertones.

You have an eye for dust,
for sadness carved from rust.

Hanging there,
with emptied hands.
There wasn’t even
a mere semblance
of substance.

Telling yourself to breathe
before a broken mirror.
You hear your rushes,
before they’re released
from dried lips.

Falling through cracks,
leaving behind tracks
for grace’s game
to keep you tame.

You make the wish,
having another dish
for seconds,
counting the seconds
over the ocean
of your ruin.