It’s not your remaining burning cold
on my skin that I mind

(Somebody new will extinguish the
frost and carve me into a sandcastle—
or perhaps, a raging sandstorm)

It’s your ever-present clutch on my heart,
your night-laced “Don’t leave” tug
on the hem of my ripped love—
stop, stop tailoring my heart
to the soft curves of your fingers! No more . . .

(It has beat-bled enough for you)

Only during cold days you have worn
this love I hand-knit for you, yet

(You have outgrown it, haven’t you?)

Your fabricated love has become my own skin
but because such rejected product is bound to be flawed,
clawed by your sharp edges, it bleeds painfully red

(And though bandaged here and there,
I wear it still. I wear it still)

Whatever left of this blood-sunken love
and pain-drenched heart of mine,
to your sun-dressed hands, it too belongs.
To you, all of me does.

(Please, don’t break me)