Price Of Love

The Price Of Love

I swallow at the sight of her, say
‘why don’t I take a picture
of your ‘uninjured’ arm too,
the one the Doctor didn’t look at’
gesture mutely at the colours
of her stained-glass elbow,
the marks of a marriage
that almost became a funeral.

She shakes her head, doesn’t want me to
because that bruise will fade
in the world’s eyes
as it darkens inside her mind.
Says it’s her own fault,
she never told the Doctor
that it hurt -
on the scale of things - it doesn’t.