She was young and I was older—I shot her heart with the arrows
I’d been storing away for just such an occasion—and struck one home;
I fell in love; she kept my arrow in her for longer than I thought possible.
Three summers went by, I found:
A healed over vane, left tarnished, corrupted, betrayed
On the ground of a bloody parking lot soaked in vanilla vodka
And lighter fluid, and singed construction paper.
My quiver is empty and I’m a lot older now—I don’t even like shooting my arrows
Anymore—my sorry aim couldn’t breach center mass now with the sharpest of edges.