Like Wounds Torn in the Heavens

The gun

to my head:

I’ll drag this poem

across a blankness,


print a

portrait of her.

You can


the validity

of my pain,

based on my

accounts of her.


Through my words,

I stage it,

paint it vivid and wild…

abstract within the lines—

a portrait of heartbreak.


“My apologies for the way I waged

my subtle war on your heart”

Like a prayer in your head.


The hours they split apart,

in little fissures and cracks,

compound feelings left untreated

can ruin the chest;

the wind cries out to meet the

place of lost composure,

out of breath.


Like wounds torn in the heavens,

Like wounds torn in our moments…


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