I am desolate.
My heart lies emaciated in my chest,
it’s subtle beats soaking up what little it has left.
Starved of love, it’s once engorged veins now only deliver drops.
With each passing moment its efforts grow more painful,
I can hardly carry on.
The parts of me that can function cling desperately to the last remnants of you,
as I read your poems over and over again.
I make feeble...