I've been breaking glass in your name again
the fragments falling in silent, sparkling tribute
to the disease that stole your tongue.

On those rare days when you still excite me,
i dance in the remnants of your beauty
painting bloodied patterns across the tile floor
as fallen shards etch a reminder of your silence
into the soles of my feet with every spin.


but anymore, i rarely dance.
and if you parted your lips,
i'd fear the dust of histories.


and on the really empty days,
i contemplate carving a hole in your chest
though not with any hope of finding a heart,
i'm just looking for inspiration.


it's strange, though.


i used to turn to my muse for passion,
now i'm just stealing pounds of his flesh.