The Day I Murdered Love

a hand, how it slivers down

a shiny chrome line.

It runs down his sleeve,

sliding down red to touch hand.

 

 

How it splashes back in that hand,

blending and trailing down her

in sleek lines.

 

 

with one kiss met,

he lays still, dumbfounded.

Not killed, but maimed,

as though sleek chrome took a form

of a nightmare.