Love's literature: a poem

Who can read the heart?
Wherein ventricles trickle and seep with the weight of our story.
Love's parchment compiled with old and crumbled pages,
Yellowed with the passage of time,
Wasting away upon shelves of regret.
The anthology of misfortune that is your book of love.

Were it not for the love of you,
I would be able to turn that page again,
In times gone by, I have read you like a book
The leaves of your novel, exhausted by my gaze upon your being.
And whichever line my eye happens to fall upon,
I cannot breathe in your being - for your literature evades me.

Tell me why you falter,
Why another love worthy of your life's tome is not enough.
Relay to me your story,
So I may interpret the narrative of you.

Allow the light of my love to shine upon you,
So that your darkness may be illumined
The trope of your love evades my senses.

As my eyes fall again on your pages,
You turn the pieces of paper when I have not yet finished reading.
And I feel those ventricles seeping with the travesty of unsaid things.
The capricious capillaries starve my heart of oxygen,
And though I die
 I still bask in the beauty of your words,
Waiting for something that is bound to kill me,
And I cannot but help let my soul linger -
 For it cannot escape the literature of your love.