she ought to embrace him as though a fragile china bottle that bore too much, tripping it against its true nature - but not her. her daddy used to say broken people are not fragile- she had believed him with silk blindfolds and crimson-stained wrists.
how could one be fragile when the damage had already been caused?
now she lay amongst the glistening shards that cut deep into her lilac-wounded flesh- a little intriguing to eyes that decipher everything as dire poetry. although for how long can the stabbing-agony be presumed as sorrowful beauty and face-whitening-fear as bewildering-wonders?
he had to gather the pieces of his star-cross'd lover that lay scattered across the cold-numbing floors where she had once done the same for him. he had to train her eyes toward the shards- force her to see more than the sharp edges- perhaps the reflections that held slices of a soul he was madly in love with.
could she blame him? she was lovely and graceful- but carried a heart capable of setting his entire world on fire.
and yet as nothing but ashes- he vows to love with all that remains. because broken can still be fragile and precious things require unfeigned handling.
YOU ARE READING
guava achings ✓
Poetrybanquets of succulent peaches in tin cans and pretty boys with passionflowers blossoming from their cuticles.
