Wrote this a while ago in a bout of inspiration; in a situation very detached from myself. |
When I ask you for your hand, will you run away, let my chest expand with painful breath, borne with foreboding drip-edged red from distress, so cold a scolding heart, drunk with disaster, patched together with the poorest quality plaster. Will you give me your body’s life, as I gave you mine, or will you take flight while I stay and fight, for an inevitable loss and losing battle, cracks darkened and filled by moss where tulips and roses no longer inhabit, while you lie in a forest, heart in hand, fearing I might grab it with my cold fist, let you writhe slowly and pale and sweat, wondering why me on the plight of imagined death, dying with those two words on your last breath. Where will you be when you realise that such intentions were never in my eyes. When you’re too far out to see, the soul that reflects back signalling you and me and all our defined happiness, in our moments of unequivocal gladness, in which your eyes teemed with the heart worn so freely upon your sleeve. When will I ever see you again, to show you how much my hand bleeds for your hand and how my clocks stopped moving long ago, when you left and my heart shook with that delivering blow that rendered time dormant, on hold until you return to warm batteries, to end the winter’s everlasting cold. |