A feather will falter on its anemic spine,
If I press hard,
a shudder romanced from rime.
Parchment will rend from a single fiber to its bone
If I fall for lust,
a fable winter has read with a moan.
Velvet ink will discharge from a fluted chalice,
If I flail,
a tumultuous tremor tempted from callus.
An envelope will shrink with a cocked forlorn,
If I cease writing,
an act from a heart feeling suborn.
Lips will grow cold despite their plump, red flush,
If I can’t kiss,
a souvenir expressing my trust.
A heart will await love if these words induce beat,
If I embrace serenity,
a virtue born for me to meet.
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