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.

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