torn letters

I'm cut by "time's old thornes"
but really just by cruelty: mine and theirs,
really just grasping - nevermind too tight or not enough
just me now.
                   hearing the same old pulse.
wishing on it - like one learns to do, on hairs, and on bones,
 on things that break, and blow.
I've followed my heart to dark places
and it's racing ahead to the end
and I can't let it go.