I pretended I knew it was coming; that’s why the combination
to the vault of my heart could only be opened by twisting the lock to 9-1-1;
you declared the space between my ribs an emergency zone
just by already knowing the combination.
What I know about heartbreak is that sometimes you need a forklift
to pull out the wreckage. It’s not a clean shatter, either.
Tonight I begged my spine to put itself back in my blouse
and stop twisting itself into the fetal position,
to woman up and stand up straight so I could get back
to reaching for the sky again, but it just bowed its head.
There are days when my reflection collects dust in all the wrong corners
because you’re not there to wipe it off
and let me get back to seeing all the best and brightest parts of myself again.
Instead I just feel like a darkened planet
that not a single comet wants to orbit around.
It’s incredible how the spaces between every breath
still find a way to spell out your name,
but then again I guess language and love are similar enough to air.
A week ago I tried salting the snowy roads of my heart
so every heartbeat would stop slipping and sliding
at the sound of your name,
but every damn pothole just emptied itself out
as soon as it was filled.