Just because you have two broken halves and all the tape in the world, it doesn't mean you can make a whole.

————

You know, I think I’m sorry now. Sincerely,

chest-heavy sorry. I carry it in the lowest tips

of my lungs like pneumonia. I know

I said I’d never apologize after you served up my heart

sliced thinly on toast, a quick late breakfast you slid to her

at the other end of the table we crawled across

(just a little further with every teasing flash of

psychotic secrets held far too private for way too long.

A folle de deux of poison and pomegranates. We debrided our wounds

And slammed them together demanding they heal.) She ate

it sliced thin on the run without savor, how you eat

a bowl of fibrous cereal consumed for your health or a bad,

but not memorable meal, served by a waitress

who calls everyone “sugar” no matter what they are like.

I’m sorry now. A true sorry folded up and stuffed inside

the deepest ventricle of that self-same heart. I understand.

It was my fault from the start.

I never should have handed it over to you,

knowing you couldn’t resist the vivisection.

I should have known my hurly burly heart

was an old and fragile thing. If you clear off the dust

sometimes that’s all there is, dust held together

by a memory of the object it used to be.

By E.V. Noechel

From: United States

Website: http://www.evnoechel.com

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