To K

Do you see the pain
written across my face
written in your hand
with mortal ink
you have gashed your name
across my face

I am nothing
more
than an open wound
like a gaping door
flung wide
rebelling against its hinges

gasping for the relief
of your hand
to quiet the tyrranical tempests
of longing
writhing within
renting me asunder

Through your absence
I have become
a god
suffering the unbearable
eternity of the present