The Whole Note Has neither a Flag nor a Body

I’ve shed her she sheets
Down to the bottom of the bed
Opting instead to smother in the burden of
Were words, all dead
So confined by the constructs that
Conned her to our end
-- So bound now myself by the same aforesaid
That even her absence renders cleft the counting of the good times that were spent:
No addition can take place when the numbers are all numb
(stunned sums)
Yet still I’m tempted to admit how sad I am
If I thought she’d find it fun
Mute Muse, these lying lines
Are tattled by a tongue that weighs a ton
Bloated by blows of no’s
Deafened by definitions
That whittle wit down to its bone
And celibate her soul
What I meant has never been spoken, those were only jokes
And the pokes she misread as cloaken?
I thought I was powered to pause time uncoited
And so, look at this hack, it seems I have:
Love’s expense has imposed this sheetless sentence
Disengaged from both sound and seconds
Posed in punctuation that, though a breath, feels like a noun
At another angle an explanation, but to this degree a dash
Proceeding one after another, broken only by marbled stutters
Eeking essay of defemminate defame, like envying the professorial sash
Worn on graduation across a purple velvet dress
A silent siren distress
To mark the compromise between excitement and crass:
Up plus lull equals Dea gone null