Ink·Heart·Serrations

Ink·Heart·Serrations

She suffers,
& I am useless,
incapable of soothing
her pain,
her profound loss,
her unrelievable grief!

How can she 
grieve
when her Love 
is not dead,
merely trapped
in a dungeon—
his own devise—
his demise
a concoction of poor choices,
arrogance & ego,
deep insecurity
masked as toxic
machismo?

Her Love is undead,
the great black wight,
barely a whisper
haunting
the collapsing
hallways of her heart,
& I can only bear
witness 
because I must hide
my own love, lest
in my selfish want
of her she feels 
smothered,
deprived 
of the space 
she needs to mourn.

¿What, because I dream
of my every morning
dawning with her 
in silhouette,
a shadow
against every
subversive sunrise?

& so we all suffer,
all of our hearts
incarcerated—
his imprisoned
within walls
of iron & concrete,
hers imprisoned
under the weight
of loss & absence,
mine behind
a loneliness
only she can cure 
& a foreboding fear
of losing her
forever—
all held 
in solitary,
confined
to the empty 
wastelands of our souls,
where hope 
can only be measured
by the pinpricks
of light that linger:
the imperfect promises
of love deferred.