The blood spills out like so much prose.

The grass is matted with blood,
and I'm still in love with you.

I will always be in love with you,
no matter how much of your blood stains the concrete,
or the carpet,
or tile,
or veneer,
or bed.

I will always be in love with you,
even though you've been gone for quite some time,
even though you did leave me here, and
never understood why I wrote those poems.

I will always be in love with you,
and you will always be on my mind,
whether in the orchard,
or the garden,
or tending to the animals, or walking the dogs.

You will always be on my mind,
no matter what book I'm reading
or poem I'm writing
or what notebook I'm burning
or what poorly lit photo I'm stubbing out my cigarette on.

I will always love you,
and you will always be on my mind,
even when the concrete,
the carpet
the tile,
the veneer,
and the bed are all growing more
and more
red.

The grass is matted with blood,
and I'm still in love with you.