Victoria Bassett-Wilton

– You dig your claws into my soul;
that ethereal thing,
as I give you my heart;
that beating flesh.

Knives with barbed ends sink into my skin –
your doing . . . and mine too.
Sometimes you give me your heart, true.

Careful, tentative –
never releasing your hand from that delicate organ.
No matter, my heart was yours and
my sky was splattered with colours send straight from a dream.

But as soon as courage gives you wings
enough to lift a finger,
panic invades your mind,
staining the sky in front of your eyes.

You try to yank your heart away,
dropping mine and stabbing it too.

Leaving me wounded, bleeding,
lying dying in the dust, until
you see what I see
and –