Modern Romanticism

Private contemplation
of past exchanges,
while a heart stays lost
down alleys,
where a voice has cost
precise deliberation.

I forage for
missing words,
casting dark glances
onto highlighted,
shifting spaces.

I salvage shadows
from secrets
once hidden away
to never betray
what I once sparked.

There are only
faint twitches of life,
frail whispers
speaking of how
I’ve forsaken mercy.

There is just
this time in denial,
in loud defeat,
in silent retreat
toward the back
where ashes
are piled high.