The Desk

Intricate carvings of lusted after names
They wound this desk that I sit upon
It seems like a stranger takes the pen from my hand
What flows forth can only be known
By the author as she knows

Men become hard headed quick, I hate it
Bitterness, as if they are torn
Makes one feel unwanted and discarded
Like the kisses that barely come
Or, come as a surprise, and whither at their best

Please, I'll carve your name here
Into the stone washed by the rain
Yesterday's anguish of a sad lament

I no longer feel, I crave
I crave what can not be defined
By Valentine's or romantic comedies

I'm never whole, feelings of emptiness coincide
With the rich aroma of a breathless plague

Here! The name stays
As a display of star crossed lovers
Intricate, wounded, and forever inked