"My head's a whirlwind" you said.
And I was at the centre.
Blown apart by gale forces, we were,
Without escape, rendered

Crippled. We had to be
Euthanised, so you say.
Whatever happened to
A brand new page

To the chronicles of us?
There was no ink
That blotched this page.
Who was to think

A whole  pen cartridge would snap
And spill tar black paint
On this clean white page?
And then you hesitate

To wipe away the river
On the paper, and streaming
Down, from your eyes,
Tinged like the ink, screaming

At me, no words being spoken.
Your salty cheeks
Were never neat. But the eye
Of the storm, is a quiet place to be.

It wasn't the decision that hurt.
It was the reaction of inaction.
And the now set in feeling
That I was never more than a distraction.