tell me, what am I supposed to feel
if thy heart has come and gone?
if the ink in this pen runs dry
and the light inside thee burns out.
what shall become of me, then
when the center in which thy glowing stems,
under flesh and bone,
burns so brightly, no more?
tell me, what then will I feel?
what more will leak out of me?
what else more can be caught,
so delicately, in the palms of open pages?