It started
when a
broken string
in your guitar,
caught my arm
and drew a line.

You mumbled
an apology,
yet we know
that was half a lie.

I pressed a finger,
then I added my palm,
but the pain didn't stop,
and you didn't either.

The white line had
turned to pink
until
red liquid
starts to
squirt.

The hours has passed
and the band
keep playing,
same with my
heart
that left
lamenting.

The long agony
is gone,
so does the red
in the line,
but the mark it left
behind
will stay,
together with
your red guitar
and the bridal
dress
I never get
to wear.*

(c) ForgottenDiety