Our pens ran dry, my love.
eyes locked across the trenches,
the battlefield, the bedroom,
the stars a little less bright these days.
Or maybe it's just my eyes.
"Hey Bright Eyes...."
Hell, maybe it's your eyes.
Ink ran off the pages, onto our skin.
Into our veins.
Indelible fingerprints all over my life.
Our pens ran dry. My love?
Hand in hand and hand on throat.
We plunged our pens into each others hearts.
Painting pictures with each others blood.
Peaceful and passionate.
Dramatic and morbid.
Blood pulsing. Pulses racing.
Whole new worlds all at our fingertips.
And we finger painted, tearing at each other.
Smearing what we found.
Congealed and clotted is the picture.
All that remains.
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