Escritoire

Here we are again
In a tête-à-tête,
A soliloquy,
And I shall again
Fillet my bones
To divulge
My pawned head,
Half smiling,
Half dead.

You are fortunate
To be dead
And not to feel,
And that this message
Wouldn't matter,
And that you wouldn't care
If I scathe your swarthy veneer
As I etch the weight
Into the frail paper
Reaching your
Solid, cold core.

But you wouldn't pick up the beads
Nor tell me that it is falling
Into this broken poem.