in this old tattered card
coy strains of belief,
my splintered heart
lies buried beneath

faded cover compels
scratched burgeoning fruit
and a mass-produced yell;
a birthday salute

but historical words
are a blade to my throat
as i plunder, eyes blurred,
the 'x' trio footnote

so i watched the card burn
our castle's ruins consigned
to smouldering red; no return
no telephone call, no words

love's decline