I promised not to write another word,
Not for another week.
But you push me...
Like those odd buttons.

Last night I fell to boredom,
And decided to paint my hands with henna.
Was your art, which is why it reminded me so fondly of you,
My uneven lines, jagged, and poor attempts to copy,
How neat it would've been if you were here doing it
For me.

And maybe I painted too early,
Or maybe I read you confessions too late-
But the pain was paramount.
A flood of tears that had ****** the water
From my dry mouth.

And now these painted hands,
That so fondly reminded me of you,
Became a constant reminder of your trial,
The unnecessary separation,
That aching inside.

And even if I tried,
I couldn't peel it away
Or pull it apart,
Because, what had inked my hands
*Had now inked my heart.