Pictures
Today I threw away your picture,
the first time I've parted
with any part of you.
For eight years you looked at me,
first from the shelves about the stove
then the corner of the refrigerator.
Your color changed with the
smoke and grease that floated up,
surrounded your face like a halo.
When the last shred of hope vanished
I put you in a drawer,
only to find you suddenly staring at me,
forgetting that I'd only moved you,
only transplanted this heart stopping emblem.
My heart stopped
the way it stops when I dream of you
because that dream girl hates me so much.
My body has all but forgotten you
so the hand that snatched the picture
and hurriedly threw it into the trash,
on top of the kale stems and onion skins,
is not a hand that remembers your skin under it.
That hand doesn't understand
how much the heart hurts, or
that this first act of freedom
may never be followed by the second.
That hand doesn't understand
how much the heart regrets
even that one lost picture.
the first time I've parted
with any part of you.
For eight years you looked at me,
first from the shelves about the stove
then the corner of the refrigerator.
Your color changed with the
smoke and grease that floated up,
surrounded your face like a halo.
When the last shred of hope vanished
I put you in a drawer,
only to find you suddenly staring at me,
forgetting that I'd only moved you,
only transplanted this heart stopping emblem.
My heart stopped
the way it stops when I dream of you
because that dream girl hates me so much.
My body has all but forgotten you
so the hand that snatched the picture
and hurriedly threw it into the trash,
on top of the kale stems and onion skins,
is not a hand that remembers your skin under it.
That hand doesn't understand
how much the heart hurts, or
that this first act of freedom
may never be followed by the second.
That hand doesn't understand
how much the heart regrets
even that one lost picture.