he lay silent for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, like he does every night, has done since he was a child

it’s calming, the same but different every night, new vistas to explore, new faces hidden in the shadows

tonight is different

he lays with a notebook and knife, staring pensively between the two every now and then, then back to the ceiling

finally he takes a deep breath, he has something prove, to himself, to his readers, to his love so far away from him

he closes his eyes and mouths his love to her, with the knife he begins carving into his chest, slowly making a circle

he groans in agony, pries the flesh, the muscle, the bone from the gradually more hollow wound in his chest

finally, his treasure in his hands, still beating, faster as pain rushes through him, aching like a pane of glass about to shatter

with a wet plop he pulls it out and sets it on the page, watching as words form from the weakly moving organ

the world dims as he reads the words, finally, the perfection he had always sought to write, with a forlorn smile he hits publish

his masterpiece, his ode to her, only possible by spilling his heart across the page, letting the poetry fall from the source