Modern Romanticism

I anticipate
a hallway
to roam down.

It’s without lights,
within a draft
coming from
a space between
what was a smile.

You are cold.
A hollowed out,
filtered shell.

Where did life go,
with its wings?

I’ve been brought low,
at the same moment
you were lifted.

You carry your death
with better grace.

Solid stone
becomes my heart
when I’m taking shelter
from the rain.

Twisted bones
becomes my cage,
where restless whispers
are my lullaby.

Everything’s scattered
between the sun,
the moon,
and this day
that won’t end
even in my dreams.