We shot arrows into the sky
And perhaps I had the weaker aim
The first fell back to earth striking my breast
Draining my life, stealing my breath

Down comes the next
Perhaps this arrow was mine to claim
It landed in the space where your rib should have been

Your eyes turned on me
They darkened with blame,
Can’t you see the wound in my breast is the same?

Instead of holding hands,
We’re pointing fingers
Our blood pools together
As our last moments linger

Parting words die on my lips,
Unable to surface with a wound such as this
If I weren’t so broken, I would have confessed,

That I’d have taken ten more arrows, for one last caress.

© Milan Lopes