, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

If air could bleed,

the space between us

would, indeed, pour out.

Hate is a balm

for our hurt,

and the danger

we fear,

becomes anger.

My dear,

Are we beyond healing?

Or, is there yet

a latent spark

of forgiveness?

Remember when

we so easily embraced:

bone against bone,

a crushing lust,

our mutual love.

But now there’s dust,

and if the space between

could bleed,

it would drown us.