Sheets and Samurai Swords

 I didn't know her love would be so beautiful and wicked at the same time.  So many sheets have watched how diabolical she was with me...silent witnesses they were. But the memory of those sheets slash my mind like Kubikiri-Asa's sword.  The memories hurt more than the day she told me didn't love me anymore and walked away.  Now these memories run rampant like a mad samurai, slicing through any kind of concentration I try to function through my days.  The one thing it doesn't slash is her face and those sheets.  Sheets at her place which would get pushed to the floor, sheets what would get ripped off the bed in a hotel room, sheets at my place which I would pull over our naked and drained bodies after we ravaged each other. Sheets I would watch her sleep in. Sheets that would cling to her form, etching her curves in my mind.  Why doesn't the blade slash those memories... and save me.  Why do those memories remain impervious, why does her face live like the moon in my mind, pulling me to her, even though she's a ghost.  I used to lick her body, now all I have to lick is the bloody edge of this blade and wish that the blood is hers so I can get one last taste, but the blood is mine as I try to forget that I'm the one bleeding.  I can't even ask for my eyes to get slashed because the way she made love to me will be on repeat in my mind. I can hear Sisyphus laughing at me. The glimmer of the blade and shimmer of the sheets embody her glorious disaster as I tell my heart to lie still, lie still and break, break silently.