If a heart were a mosaic I would take you out.
Risk my own undoing.
With less of you, there would be more of me.
More of He.
You paint me with a sticky sadness; leave a residue I wouldn’t chew, even
if you didn’t taste like ash and mortar—and a little like a bad memory vividly remembered.
Carefully, I would rend you, digging, lifting, ripping.
And if that didn’t work, I would plunge my nails into your center and . . .
leave you be.
You filthy thing; you always did belong with me.
Shall I contend with you then?
Yes, I speak to you, dearest.
A stately sort of grace you bear, with your proud top hat, and centur-ree of dignity.
Been there. Done that. What else have you got?
It is by-and-by, I decide, that you, Sir and Madam may have wizened your wisdom;
for you’ve gone blind. Lost
your sighted sight, in return offered a slight, in which you insult the very foundation on which you stand.
On stilts you wobble to and fro, looking for what’s new and bold—something shiny to throw.
Is it LOUD that you seek? Repulsed by the passive and meek? I dare say you’ve missed the whole.
And so a quarter will have to do. You
keep what’s near and dear, and I’ll continue to sink, because,
at some point rescue is imminent.
And then where will you be?
Charmed, I’m sure, no wait . . .
But a lady I am. I bid you adieu most cordially.