Like Wounds Torn in the Heavens

The gun

to my head:

I’ll drag this poem

across a blankness,

off-white;

print a

portrait of her.

You can

determine

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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