It is easy to forget
what the heart can’t bear to remember,
and every time I slip into bed
with someone new
I hope she unpicks the uneven stitching
of thread of unfulfilled promises that
“Time will heal all wounds”
(it does not).

But you are no surgeon,
your hands are not deft
but as steady as my fluttering pulse.
Old wounds gape open;
I am all bones and deteriorated sinew
old and slow
so very cold
the spaces between failing organs bleed
congealing dreams going stale.

Still you try,
with each fresh incision
slicing away diseased tissue
excising decaying matter,
believing this patient will recover.

Time might heal all wounds,
yet still,
let’s keep the defibrillator close.