My fingertips are donned with battle wounds, paper cuts and scars,
from writing draft after draft of love notes you’ll never read.
Yours are pointed in contempt; I am not the person you hoped
I would be for you by now. The punching bag you expected
turned out to be a blanket that you have no interest in being
wrapped up in despite how cold your heart has grown.
The usually steady buzz of my cell phone against hardwood
has ceased, and in its place I hear only the dripping of the faucet.
I meant to fix it weeks ago, but haven’t noticed it in a while.
The memory of you echoes in my mind, how I laid out on that grassy bank
beside you, my fingers traveling like fearless soldiers across the dirt, conqueringeach blade to rescue yours. You told me that you didn’t need saving.