Why I write about you constantly

Something stole the inkwell from your desk.
Swiped straight from the laminated plywood.
Stolen and sloshed carelessly,
Ink over a thin glass rim.
Something stole your inkwell and pried it open,

wringing the lifeblood from your bandages.
Wrung them out over my throat.
My trachea is smudged and blotched.
Something took your inkwell from your bedside
and set it, open, within my lungs.

I had to write.
My ribs are pointed pen nibs.

Your inkwell has spilled within me now.
The pages of my plasma are saturated.
My lips: cracked, seeping with you
as if my words might kiss life!
back, into your idle fingers.