poison-dipped
the pen is mightier than the sword.

inkstains seep,
deep in the blue-lined parchment
of your brittle, fickle skin,
slowly—the raindrop rhythm
of silk scarves rustling
and jaded hearts breaking.
this isn't quite like the gold business, love;
no amount of solution
will ever erase
the trace marks of our goodbyes.
those inkstains—
they won't remain, and you will have
nothing but the memory of us.

the post-boy sends your message
to my house
the very next morning.

it disappears in a sharp slash
of gilt flames
and sweet-smelling ashes,
your painstakingly crafted words
melting like love
in fire's indiscriminate embrace.

that afternoon,
before nightingale dusk falls,
I send you a vial of cyanide.