Pen and Ink

In the quiet solitude of my room, curtains drawn,
I fight to control the tears that seem foolishly shed.
Taking pen to trembling hand, pressing it to the tissue,
I feel a trickle of ink beginning to flow.  Warm.

I think of how words connected us, drawing her near me
And of how for all that was shared, much remained a mystery.
It is no surprise how strongly my heart beats for her;
The reservoir primed, every pulse bleeds ink upon the page.

Perhaps not so much time has passed as to warrant my fears
Yet her unexplained silence taunts me, becoming my monster.
Demons laugh wickedly, daring me to make this bold expression.
Reservoir drained, ink pooling "passion" in crimson red.  Cold.

AMBRESS, April 2008


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