Habits

Mirrored pain, dribbled unto you, nay?
From those closed crystal eyes,
Where you hold an expanse
Of unshelterled ache,
Across the ridge of your hook nose
Down to your parched lips,
Chapped and lifeless,
And finally dripping out
Unto my soul,
Cloaked, in a feathery quilt
Of pretenses.

The westerward winds blew hard,
And I clutched at my knight armour
Beneath which, I held safe
Your aching love.
The pins pricked at me,
And I felt the fluid ooze
Out of my windpipe,
Punctured.
Your eyes shut, I never tried to pry open
For, I do not want
A cascade of lavacious heat.

Drop down the cloak,
Or shed the layers-
I try not.
The bare soul might just kill
For, hollow it becomes,
In the absence of the ache
That fills, in sheer love.
If those pins could ease their way out
My love would flow out, draining me
And I'd bleed
In the dearth of fresh pain.
I need your ache,
I sustain in its shadow.

Some habits never die.
And when they do, they kill, nay?