Testament

The stigmata scabs crust over in yellow frozen pools on my knuckles.
Shredded on pebble-spiked concrete for the touch of your nursing lip,
they weep acidic tears of loss. Struck dumb to those around by the
entwining of foreign souls, you eased out words from my numb muscle on
the bridge.

The tears wept unseen, but known, by your careful watch betrayed the
surface and showed you the little boy inside, scraping at the walls and
trying to escape his desolate pit.

You interlocked eyes and entwined flesh to disable the turmoil and heal
the tragedy.

With words I can only say what my heart wants to hide swamped with
alliteration, assonance and techniques that sterilize the intent of my
feeling.

With art I can only draw crude hearts on red crepe paper and etch
letters resembling us behind, betraying my passion as childish and
immature.

With music I can only move pretty notes around space and assemble
clich?s or artistic sentiments, frustrating the soul that breathes the
meaning.

Wait a long while and I shall perfect all three for you and create the
testament I need for my love.