pain from the swelling in her eyes

When thoughts of self and feeling fade, you face a brand-new page,
You write again, then rip it out, release another stage.
You jot something of yourself, inside you doubt anew,
Did you really tear the very first sheet through?

You fling yourself among a stack of crumpled sheets of white,
Seeking it in endless piles, you find it, then you read it right.
Between hate and love, there lies one reckless step,
From words I wrote once, a brow twitches in that space.

How could I have penned such lines, what moved my very hand,
When every thought bled onto the page, and took a mortal stand?
And even if our souls in chorus never beat as one,
Dear friend, we’ve never felt so alone beneath the sun.

In memory, hands are like a green petal’s trace, In those eyesIt hurt me to see the tide rising in her eye
All the blame lies on this damn crumpled sheet of fate,
All on the lousy ink that’s piled in that late — or early — gate.
 Question it, cast it out, for you’d rather not behold its gade

Write, as you’d love to see her in the light of joy so bright,
And from this moment on, you’ll hate yourself in plain sight.
A new blank page, a new author, a fresh, unsteady pen,
Write of how simply you love to see her once again,
And in the end, that you love only her, not other ten