Love, Other-wise

A Poem

A hollow heart’s 
beat is shrill,
slow, nigh still,
until another’s starts

to fill it; faster
it then speeds
towards the needs
of both. Ask her

honestly for
constancy. “My
dear, myself I
deny. What is more,

were you to
go, to leave,
to bereave 
me of she who

saved a slowing
heart from stalling –
a heavy head from falling
further from Love's knowing –

I would forgive,
though not forget.
My maker met,
I could not live.

Should you not 
requite, state 
disdain. Create
a martyr, plot

to drop the blade
upon me. Behead
this husk – this dead,
dank frame made

for one mind,
souls two,
and three persons to
bind."