The Conversation

He called in the wee hours of the morn,
Tis no proper mourning of a friendship lost.
Just a simple ending to a complex problem.
A single knot which unravels all,
And to let the in-betweens come to fall.
Feel the slide of smooth blades,
As fine as strands of his honeyed hair.
From those lines, lies a map of what had fade.
Etched like that tattoo of her name upon his skin.
There’s nothing left to be said.
Only a dial tone on the phone.