Heart
I could not tell you anything when you were in love with her.
She walked angelic, the hammer in her heart hidden, her hands
too small to do much damage
Those were the things you thought of before you knew
the devilish pace of beauty when it bores itself with a new venture.
There was that first stench of bad love that you tried to believe
could be your fault or some failing you could not discover.
She was never a woman that could accept familiarity.
She was no victim, though she sprang up often, beautiful,
willful, charging your existence with a depth of love
that you could not understand but welcomed into the emptiness.
She was no victim, but she seemed so vulnerable, so certain
of your long list of failures, that you believed no one
could be that certain and still be wrong.
So you made up to her for the nothing that you had done.
You poured a gentle whiteness hopelessly into the dark.
And when it came, that sweet piercing of indifferent rejection,
you stood in an uneasy stance, and she swung
her self centered hammer of total destruction, into your believing,
until it bludgeoned your trust into a broken vessel.
And I could not bear to see it, so I watched the stars in silence,
noting how bright they are, before they burn and fall.
I can not tell you anything now.