squirm through my guts,
having gnawed through the fossilized clay of my heart,
and the rusty steel of my pride,
they feed me with guilt.
They eat me alive.
Manifested from love's revenge
having witnessed its suicide,
I live in anguish at my lost,
wanting—wishing for death to cure me.
These worms of regret,
they torment me.
They remind me that I could have saved love.
Each and every slither hallows me out,
reiterating my longing for love to complete me.
Still, my salvation lies with hope that love never dies.
Rather it changes.
Having had love in my grasp
perhaps I am learning how to hold on to it...
by chance that love never dies.
