Love letter # 411

Seeking distance. Numbness. A blaze of sex. Blur of intoxication. Defiant self-talk. Strip you from my skin. Tear that page out.

Now the wound of folly. Dishonour.

You only said goodbye. I scratched the paint from the walls. Hoping that the ruins would set me free. They did not.

In time, this blood will clot, and I will bear the marks of your passing and your presence, and I will know that even this wreckage is the treasure of your love.

And I will honour every trace.