This fine Art.

Gnawing my fingers to the bone
so I can pluck at your heartstrings.
Unresponsive, existing alone.
Chipping cautiously away at stone.
Thoughts a-blaze, those unsayable things.

Clinging on to what’s left of your heart,
counting the shattered pieces that remain.
Practising, always, this fine art
as we splinter apart.
Two pawns trapped in a victor-less game.

Tick, tock, taunts our love’s clock,
thoughtlessly devouring our seconds.
Grasping at earth, eternally stuck.
Red wine on my Sunday frock,
the heart aches as the face, pretends.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s