Cracking

There is red wine trapped
In the cracks of her lips
As she murmurs in a splintered voice
That no demons squeezed the tiny vine-grown hearts
That solidify as blood in her glass.

Her fingers curl around its stem
In much the same way as Hermes
Curls his crimson fingers around my spine.

He has me by my nervous system –
It's shuddering, can you tell?
Now there are cracks in my eyes
Like the cracks in her lips,
And all he wants is a companion.

He whispers, or perhaps bellows,
That it is not as though
I am not in need of the exact same thing.

My goodnight is a whisper, cracked once more
By the knowledge that my new friend
Will one day carve out of my goodnight a goodbye.

It's a simple operation, I suppose:
Just an everyday suffix transplant,
Merely routine,
And he assures me that he knows
How to reduce blood loss,
Administer the correct anaesthetic,
And tie up all loose ends.

But for now the scarlet shadows of all her sins
Will remain trapped in the cracks of her lips –
Affording me a glimpse of her bleeding soul
And her a glimpse of mine.