Like Ink from a Broken Pen

The venomous recollection
Of the sights and the sounds that permeate
The soul, the skin, the ever mutating, ever changing filter of
Your eyes,
Drives a dagger deeper ever still,
In such elegant fashion,
Straight into the darkest corners of this empty room.

I once heard that to behold you was to play with fire,
That your touch bleeds the coldest winds of wintertime.
But they were only half right.
Forgive these words spewing out like ink from a broken pen,
Like dark ribbons of paint,
Collecting at the bottom of a metal tray.
My metal tray heart.