I stopped writing poems
When you asked me to leave
There was nothing more to say
The world grew instantly dim

I told you my heart would heal
It did continue to beat
But its sole function since
Has been the pumping of blood
Both to and from
Fingers that once touched

Brightness of my eyes
Has faded, chilled, faded
Reflecting the ache
No longer fed by a still beating heart

The world would never know
The utter and inexplicable depth
Of the real and true and lasting love
That is now but a puddle on the floor
Melted from the icy cold veins
Slowly evaporating
Slowly growing smaller
Fed only by diminishing tears

I stopped writing poems
When a last tear
From eyes too tired to see
Rolled down my cheek
Fell to the floor
And joined the puddle
That was once our love