For years I have been caught in this process:
plucking free your hair from my breastplate
wiping eyelashes from my thigh meat
filing grown out nails from my elbows.
Illustrated shared memories’
ink dripping down from my detached lobes
ink smearing over my knuckled hands
ink wiping away through my greased mane.
Who has a free chisel
to chip off remaining lust
to break bonds from my kind heart
to carve out of concrete hold?
My time will come
hours from minutes
days of long hours
years gone to dead days.
of your soul