You are not an illusion put aside. I can actually see right through you.
You are not you. And I begin to crumple the paper;
Our crumpled hearts become indented.

They are black,
They are itched and dashed,
The hearts do not last.

You were once held.
You were once loved.

You. I draw the tracings of a ghost.
You. I draw the contours of silence edging the shape of lips,
And I touch the ink to my lips and begin to taste it.
The ink begins to flow as my tongue wets the ink.

This tongue of mine is now colored black
And you say, You said,
A heart is always ebony black.

My hair is black,
My lashes are long.
My heart is dark,
My cheeks are bones.
And the surface to my heart
Is hard, as hard as a rock.

You do not disappear.
You always come back.
You. You appear in a frame of a picture.
You. You continue to stare at a fixture.

As I draw our distance between a dream and fiction.
I have to tell you, I see right through you.
A heart of ebony black,
It is never as dark as ebony black.

Indented in our hearts is glass,
Do not pull it out.
Ebony black is not so bad.