Solitude like honey glazed donuts?*
more like barbed wire, engrossed you in
a casing of something called a torn
aorta

and it's pulsing, critically injured
doubtful that hope will tie every loose end
you're made of like
unwound thread, a dried piece of clay
left out too long (as you were)

and the artist stands- and does not visually
preview the masterpiece but
creates one in her mind

that maybe the boy who almost fixed
her,
allowed himself to be the scab
one last time