My Broken Heart

He never asked for it aloud, but every moment, every laugh, every smile, begged for it. The call steadily grew stronger and stronger. Louder and more persistent. But now, I was glad to answer the call. I rejoiced to give him such a precious gift; in fact, I desired to. It became a thing of delight to know it would be in his gentle possession.

I looked up at him, the sun reflecting off his slightly tousled hair, admiration shining in his beautiful chocolate brown eyes. My heart decided for me. The answer was yes. Yes, I would finally give it to him. Yes, today was the day. Slowly, carefully, I placed my hands to my chest. My heart beat excitedly. I cradled it in my hands, carefully bringing it just between us. I was finally ready to offer it to him. He'd already stolen it long ago. It glowed a warm, inviting red, almost beckoning him to reach out and touch it. This was my gift. My heart. Full and warm, brimming with love, beating in tune with his.

I watched him as he reached out to take it. He gently wrapped his calloused hands around my vulnerable heart now beating erratically. That adorable smile of his lifted his lips as he felt its excited beat. I felt connected. Secure. LOVED. In awe I watched memories and fears, pain and sadness play before him in the deep red gloss around my heart. It had found a place where it felt secure enough to open up. Found in him a resting place where for once it felt treasured and tenderly embraced. It dallied with hopes and dreams, soaring amid the clouds with no sorrow to lower its happiness.

It twisted and danced, twirled and laughed, ecstatic in its current place. It was home. The vibrant red had never shone brighter, its thoughts never been happier, and its dreams never been clearer. It trusted fully.

I watched him cradle it in his palms, enraptured by its pure joy. His eyes shone as he held it close, placing it near his own. My heart had found its missing half. It finally belonged.

However, it was not to be. 

The sky unexpectedly darkened, the clouds low and heavy. His hands dropped lower and lower. The soft red darkened a little, as doubts crawled in and fears sieged its tender walls. A dark hand reached toward my heart, its fingers grasping and greedy.

I despaired as I saw other things slowly  begin to crowd the space in his hands once reserved for only my precious heart. I watched my heart be pushed to the side, unwanted, and uncared for. I watched it become a thing of the past; a once good memory but now too much work to hold and care for.

Slowly time increased, as did that which crowded around my heart. Time calloused his hands as well as his tenderness. My once bright, vibrant heart now barely beat, its color now dark and gloomy. He began to hold my heart a little more loosely, until it teetered on the edge. The dark hand still lurked in the distance, ready to snatch it as soon as it would drop.

In panic I reached to retrieve my heart from his calloused hands before it experienced any more pain; before any more plump red tears slid down its tender layers. However, as I reached for it, he noticed. A wicked smile crossed his once gentle expression, as he placed both of his large hands around my dripping heart. With an evil smirk, he dug his sharp nails into its soft flesh, reveling in the pain he inflicted. Slowly, surely, with his fingers embedded into the very depth of my heart, he gazed into my pain-glazed eyes as he ripped my sobbing heart from its cradled position. One hand on either side, he pulled away. He tore and scratched it, bruised and battered by poor, trusting heart.

Looking down at his hands, he watched as he pulled my heart to jagged pieces. He watched as the threads of love and joy strained then suddenly snapped under the pressure. He watched as the pressure he exerted tore my heart from end to end.

He methodically increased the pressure until my weeping heart lay in two separate pieces. From each end, detached strings held on for dear life. Strings that embodied love, laughter, trust, and hope. Strings that had once bound my heart to his. Strings that had been wrenched apart by his callousness.

Seeing what he'd done, he looked into my tear filled eyes, his own cold and dark, no trace of that softness I'd once found there. He stretched out his hands, offering the jagged pieces to me. As I reached out, he called my name. Something vaguely akin to tenderness lined his voice, forcing my eyes to meet his.

He only said a few words.

"Things are different now."

Stunned, my hands stopped midair. His words sunk in. He was completely done with me. Completely finished with the "burden" of holding my heart.

I reached to rescue my battered heart. But an evil smirk wrenched his lips, as he dropped both pieces, purposefully letting them fall to the rain soaked concrete beneath.

"Goodbye." He muttered as he turned his back to me.

My eyes flicked back to the broken heart on the soaked cement. I numbly watched the black hand snatch the dark red pieces of my broken heart off the cement, and cradled them in his own dark hands.

I didn't care anymore that depression now called my broken heart his own. I guess it was better than trying to piece the jagged pieces back together again.

The shameful thing is that my aching heart still yearns to see his sweet smile, still desires to hear his voice, and even still hopes to be held tenderly in his hands once more.

It was then I realized. In all that time he'd held my heart, he'd never given me his.