All's well, end game.

The first paper cut, at that last letter,
sealed with a moist expectant tongue.

She had scabbed her knee,
Fallen while running to get to the post box
before the 5pm closing mail run.

And by her final application of a band aid,

There was I,
At which the sight,
The weeping wounded.
I, her shrapnel strewn valentine.

The moaning crows.
The blind worms, poking about.
Out mine eyes.