The broken-hearted


 


After it broke,

I picked up the pieces

and folded up the corners of my heart,

creased the lines in well and sharp

and tucked it into a box

I shoved into the deepest, darkest hole

where light could never find.

It stayed there quiet and resigned

in a pool of its own tears,

willing the memories to evaporate

and regrets to dissolve.

And for years, it was fine.

Never mind the silverfish

darting in and out

eating the edges of the heart.

It was fine.

Never mind the days that moved one into another

into a year

and then a decade passed.

It was fine.

Never mind that no one knew

or cared to look for it at all.

It was fine.

There were enough hearts in the world

free, whole, and happy,

beating gently against another.

One heart less out there --

scarred, fragmented, and in pieces,

folded up in the dark 

with lines creased in well and sharp

-- was fine.


(A midnight poem in 10 minutes)

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