For Love Is Beyond My Door

There is a poem I have yet to write,
For how does one write what only the heartless can feel?
I speak with shards of my memory,
For I am simply a shell of what once was.
I love with my blood draining from my veins to write life, love in the empty white spaces.
I am incapable of extracting my soul from the gallows where it remains chained to my hast been.
But one can pretend to comprehend the foreign language that is my one and only fear.. love...
For love is tempting and even the empty long for impossibility.
I can say I love you in a emotionless and heartfelt tone.
For I love you in my own coldness, seeing hope is still resting on one side of your ruins, while mine was emptied long ago.
I need not feed your ears or your heart lies to speed you to recovery, but am content to give you the tiny morsels of me that remain so that your wounds May bare only scars in remembrance.
I unlike you bare no signs of redemption, so I freely give you what is still free of rot and withering so that you may live with me.
I am simply and only a shell with little crystals to give,
For love once passed through me walking away with my soul, and love is now far beyond the reach of my door.