With wet crimson ink
and my dry heart for parchment
She has written
a new poem
With the feather
of our love
Her wrist twirls
and shimmies
as the words
are etched
between the sinews
on the flesh
what once pumped so fiercely
gallons of blood
now proclaims
nothing but her name
what once delivered
nourishment of my own
now feeds nothing
but her wellness
what once so silently
performed with diligence
has lost all loyalty
my turncoat heart
is a vicious traitor
now so loudly it thumps
and pounds
and beats
for her
and between the cacophonies
and the trembling
I hope
I pray the words
she etches
are wondrous
Such a lovely scribe
May the poem she writes
be as beautiful
as she