“Make a broken heart poetic,”
the message instructed.
Very funny; is my sorrow not enough?
Must I don a red nose and perform a magic trick
to excite your emotions?
I have been melancholy all year long.
Love, like a knot, tenderly tied,
in an instant becomes undone.
Like the air you breathe -
outside of you,
then inside of you,
then exhaled -
no memory of it left in your lungs. Or
the comfort of a full moon,
so bright in your eyes
as you gaze skyward.
You weep
from staring at it too long, or
because you know it won’t last.
You turn to your shadow
and suddenly all you see and remember is darkness.
The moon shines on but
you forget.
You forget.
No.
I won’t be poetic
for a broken heart.
How can I
when I am
the poem?
