I fear now that my heart

is empty; my ink has run out.

There are only so many ways

to write of how you do not love

me: the deep echo of loneliness

reverberating within my brittle bones, 

the ice-cold frost that has

taken residence in my fingertips and

the way your tongue starts

bleeding a liar's blood each time

you whisper "I love you."

You cannot love me because I

could sketch the intricacies of your

face and often times you forget

the color of my eyes.

There are places in my mind I could

show you, foreign lands to which

you've never been but the lock

to my heart is sensitive and 

your key had too many jagged edges.