Ruminations on Broken Things

Alternating loaded punches

bruise the space between us.

Ceasefire no longer an option,

desire has left the battlefield.

Eclipsed by blazing eyes,

frail memories bleached by white hot anger

gaze like dwindling stars

hoping to find their navy sky.

If only he could remember

jasmine scenting our salty skin,

keen to seep like soap into olfactory

lingering and remembering of us,

mending our cracks like kintsugi—

neat lines of gold tracing a richer story

Or

Perhaps I could recall that moon

quelling the prisoner in my chest, when

reaching beyond the depth of my eyes

solemn oaths dripped from his lips;

tender proclamations

undressed hazy intentions

voiced with his hands gripping mine:

Will you marry me?

X on my lips when I said

Yes! Yes! Yes!

Zeal of it all, seems spent now, tired and long forgotten.