To sew the popping seams,
The cold conniving crease,
Of what our love just could have been.
His casted eyes they burn,
And seep right through my soul,
Where there was once light,
Now riddles dark as coal.
Your touch as it was meant for fire,
Ices up my lungs,
Emptying out my storied songs,
Before they could be sung.
I lay on the tip of your tongue,
As I may not be kind to start,
That when we once knew love,
I slept, protected, inside your heart.
— 6424
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