Clammy fingers punched keys
Against naked jaundiced paper
Smeared by words to eyes once concealed
Heard as toothed-steel bite
Parchments that screamed then killed.
A lost story told turned immortal
Breathing breath to your breathless lungs
Bloody ink bold and black
Against the daylight white
And papers’ hue in color lacked.
Type-written truths were twisted lies
Bottled, fermented which I drank
Intoxicating as false ecstasy
Converted into these words I type
Of an almost reality that you’re alive.
Filled parchments piled up and sing Whispering unbroken hearts and fields so green Like the color of young love growing Not of thorn-pierced fingers and skin And throats slit by weeds slithering.
Fingers persisted to play the keys
As papers flew, torn, and stained
Telling a tale, a chronicle almost lost
A novel of would’ve been if you stayed
A version of your love I just made.
And as you lie under the ground
Beneath cold earth and stone
I forge these words for you alone
An alternate account of a story we once wrote
Ending with a blissful period instead
In the name of your bones I quote.