Modern Romanticism

A cold flow
can be the one thing
to dry these eyes.
I’ll get back to seeing
my initial deprivation,
to divorce from sanity
as a grave game.

I am shouting
from the bottom
of a cliff,
rebounding desperation
against desperation.

There are favors
I won’t return
once the lights go out,
in the act of waiting.

There are states
I won’t revisit,
preferring to reinforce
a soundproof shelter.

No one hears
what walks out from
a hollowed heart.

No one knows
where I’ve fallen,
to dine on yesterday.

The future is a promise
I’ve long broken,
like the bones I carry
on low shoulders.