Friday

Midnight settles in your eyes,
with the scent of familial pain, 
at the back of my own hand
you stay; healing the face 
of my mind in every tomorrow. 
Selfish my fate to use 
the easiest answer, palatially 
placed in the interlink of your
fingers, writing poetry in
my breath, a piano.
To grasp the man that loves
unconditionally like true a
Shakespearian major,
discarding tuned keys unto
the blood of another,
upon a mid-summer
night's dream,
I can't shake
the stain of red from my hands,
the stain of red from my hands,
the blood, the blood,
your blood on my hands.