true love

trying to touch it,
to lightly finger the surface,
sharp;
it's like the edge of a sharpened
razor.
one that slices past skin,
through flesh,
stopped by bone.
you were not prepared
for such a surprise.
now red tears pour out,
stream without repent from that opening,
trickle downward,
along hand, then arm.
all you ever really wanted
was to be close enough to it
to know its presence,
aware that it was there
in the black of each day, sitting at the end of the bed while you sleep.
the closeness you seek,
resulting in that sad fluid
now trickling to the floor,
where it dries, hardens,
and is later forgotten.
you cannot possess it
without experiencing pain.

---sebastian