Broken Hearts
Your mother called me last night
to tell me you killed yourself
the day before.
It was a dream and I woke up crying,
believing now, it's over, for real.
Once I explained to you
the difference, in a LinkedIn Letter because you ignored me while you said you thought about me,
between mourning
and melancholia--
the difference between breaking down
a memory or swallowing all of them whole,
with one method making it nearly
impossible to deal with the pain you caused.
I'd never met a more colder, crueler
man than you when I remember--
that time in July on the bench at midnight,
that time in August at the gym at six,
that time in May at the park at seven
that time in Summer at half past five
when I could feel the sun burning
my skin and droplets of sweat
started to bead up,
when you said you had no feelings.
You said I broke your heart,
after I asked you if you loved me
and you said no,
standing there with your arms folded,
checking the time on your watch;
the one with Batman
glued to the middle of the dial,
only because I ruined everything
for you.
I listened and swallowed your words,
like rusted nails, razors and blades
you'd fine at an abandoned junk yard
of unwanted odds and ends,
ripping and cutting the inside
of what was left
of my late afternoon soul.
You said it was all my fault.
AAC ©2014
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