Doubt

He had carried her heart in his hands.

In the luxury of sterile corridors,
Her red voice was screaming through the white,
His mind battled back, blue and nervous folds of thought,
Lapping on her shore of suffering.

Tepid tempered in their mix,
It could go either way,
Every movement cranks the volume silence sings.

But why now?
An old friend had moved oversea, but he never wrote.
I guess I never considered that he could have lost his pen.
And now frantically
Unromantically
He
Scrawling through the bawling
Splashes black
Thrashes back as if a thousand whips on tiger lips merely sharpened its teeth
Now
Slinking heavy shoulders as its pupils thin to knives.

But then:
Purple.
Little.
You.
Shallow breaths gem from your chest,
Miracle crystalline.
The luxury of sterile corridors,
Dashed doubt, gave life divine