I will chase you to the ends of Earth
or ‘til my breath is spent.
Heartache doesn’t befit you, love.
Consider my heart as lent.
I’ll sign your name across my wall,
in rivulets of red.
Since inks cannot express my love,
I’ll write in blood instead.
And should my inkwell peter out
--should an instrument run dry,
without haste, I’ll draw again
from the other wrist’s supply.
And once my masterpiece is done,
and all my plasma’s drained,
I will surely love you more
while dying to read your name.
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