Shed droplets
from an interior
firestorm,
watching for whoever
might come too close
to see what
has been dissolving.
Through fear,
you’ve burned
what must be dropped
into an abyss,
into an earthen shelter
for a kiss.
With no starlight,
without you
coming out at night,
you are screaming
always inside.
Through sunsets,
you’re losing water
at the world’s end,
diving your time
between blame
and shame.
Knowing this,
these fractures
you’re committed to,
tells a story
you want no one,
besides echoes
to hear.
Modern Romanticism 
Leave a Reply