I have lived with a broken heart since she was bittersweet fifteen:
her sunshine scars and the metal bars never hid her beauty,
whether we were in Spain and Switzerland: I was just a dreamer.
There’s all these parts of my past that you now will never know:
the crushed tea leaves and your forty p are still lying here,
my phone’s not ringing anymore, not since.
You’re busy reaching for clouds with someone else,
and these pain killers stopped working after too many attempts.
I shall live with a broken heart until you’re a hundred and one and we
will long have created forsaken lives never to have crossed again.
I shall type words then still belonging to your heart and soul
while listening to the songs I remember you sing
and have a sad smile on my face to perhaps mirror the one on yours.
Because this broken heart is all I am and I can’t let it go:
what would I become without these shoulders bearing
the weight of life, love and everything lost, always…