Wholesome

To implant your name on a birch, my dear,
Would be too cruel and diminishing to take,
For though my body squirms fastidiously in your embrace,
I don't believe you understand my cause,

My ache that leaves me wholesome at night,
Restlessly awake in another embrace,
Cold and heated,
On the edges of my bed.

If you knew this horror
And saw your name cut across my hip,
You would depart,
Leaving me wholesome at night once more,
Tugging on to your fading freckles,
And your receding eyes -
A labourless chore.