We Called it Love.

Fragments.

Fragments.

Recollections formulate in my head:

Your fingers rest atop me where,

He used to lay his lips upon my hip bones.

I gaze through the kitchen glass,

As the knife I hold begins to tremble in my frigid palm.

My printed dress flutters in the open door.

The smell of your cologne lingers on my collarbones.

The existing moment pulls me back:

I slip further into my thoughts, my insomniac mind reigning over me.

Screen doors slamming into their sockets.

Creating a harmony with the crickets that expel my vision.

All of this diminishes.

I sit atop the ledge of my window sill,

Fingertips trail along the fragments of wood.

The worn dryness of it sparking hatred in me.

I took my pills already as they crumble into my blood.

You're screaming my name from somewhere distant,

But all I can deliberate on is the flower bushes below cradling my broken bones.