Sunday, October 17, 2010 - early morning

She sits
across the table
a dividing surface,
captive to the distance

between
her now, and always
wondering if he knows
that her love falls towards

a break
in the original
heat, the fire, the burning
open of fear, that stole

her heart
and threatens sanity
as a weapon, a wound
to bleed out devotion

until
only calm regard rests
behind eyes once fitted
with a rose washed belief -

and the
table seems now, in the 
spell of this wound, to loom
at the cusp of never...