“You’ve broken heart syndrome,”
the doctor says.
Such a poetic title
for a sickness that can’t be cured.
Little veins break,
around your heart, you don’t see the blood,
but you feel the burn.
The cells die, then,
they revive when you breathe.
***
Years ago, he left home
without a word,
leaving me with a broken heart.
I’m traveling on a train,
but the images travel with me,
the sleepless nights
when his fever reached the roof,
the first day of school,
his prom night, his college years.
***
I get off the train & go home;
some one has painted his face
on the pane of the windows,
on the wall,
on my pillow.
I put my hand on my chest,
feel the heartbeat and wonder:
how much more broken can it get?
Why don’t you let go?
***
I look at the closed door of his room,
View original post 39 more words
WILDsound Festival 