Modern Romanticism

Enough days
to entertain a smile
that’ll shatter,
when a different moment
comes to matter.

Your worst ending
is to see the sun
for the rain,
for the faces
you’ve come to treat
with disdain.

Enough seconds
developing yourself
off a second skin,
a mask folding your name
on an early headstone.

You’re in disrepair,
content with an onslaught
that deprives you
of a future’s
forgiving frame.

Build with the days
better to be saved,
to be remembered before
you turn out the lights
to enter your ruin.

Build with the pages
written after exploring
a larger part
of your thudding heart,
before you fall.