...

.

.

.

                And so my heart

Broke, as though

                It’d been made from glass:

                Splitting fissures, cracking

                With such delicate intricacy -

                As interstitial webbing, reaching

                Into cardiovascular chambers, valves,

                Atria, and throughout brittle, eggshell arteries.

.

                I’d been keeping it in a steel-lock cage,

                Safe kept, within rungs of wrought iron,

                But the moment that I saw her

                Living the life that I did - 

.

The lonely one, the one where joy

Is but a construction

We’re forced to build ourselves,

.

Without another to shape its figure,

No other pair

Of careful hands

.

                                from which to ask for help - 

.

                I felt a nail extend between its bars

                And chisel a little fissure, a flaw,

                Against the fragile, precious treasure

                And so tap its slow stigmata

.

                     into the center, of it all.

.

.

.