A broken heart deforms in seconds.
Shards of deeply rusted glass shatter
all over the kitchen floor, like a
mason jar dropped by young, sticky
The jar leaves a stain on the checkered linoleum
that no amount of bleach could remove.
It’s not a pretty shape, not even a satisfying
blob. At least if it were a blob there would be
a reason for such discomfort.
Instead, there are faint speckles of brown
scattered around the edges of endlessly black
eyes, like freckles that crinkle when you smile,
except. Except that you don’t smile, not at this
messy, broken jar.
Your freckles do not exist. Your skin is clear
of blemishes, except. Except that a heart is symbolically
symmetrical, so if there is just one half of a heart, shattered
like a dropped mason jar on his pristine linoleum checkerboard,
then somewhere. Somewhere within the dusty attic, wedged
between cobwebs of ghosts so old that they haunt themselves,
is another broken jar that scattered brown around
an up-‘til-then clean face. For, somehow, I have freckles.