A wound is a well
save that a well can be full;
a wound just empties.

To love is to bleed
delicate: a maroon flow.
One can love too much.

Every time I think
about how she’s not here, not
lying next to me
the sutures are loosened: as soft

as unearthed marrow.
No amount of milk, honey,
copious *****

can heal the hair-thin
fault line in the core of me:
the best medicine

is our bright laughter.
A pair of wind-chimes letting
breeze cast its blessing.

The good news: she cares
enough to call me by name,
a sufficient grace.

The bad news: a wound
will sometimes reopen, and
will consume me should
I not allow light to trespass.

A wound is a well
but, unlike a well, remains
after it is dry.