The pain love can cause is not in the whirring of the heart

Its arteries turning into blades, cutting through your innards

The rapid beats of unease inching closer to some death

A funeral for a dream or desire; rest in peace my love

The rusted chains of our beaten swing won’t miss you

The untouched books in the second-hand shelf won’t sigh

Torn sheets from our battleground are tucked away

In the corner of my bottom rack with other castaways

Like seeds of passion in crumpled shirts you forgot

Still lies the coffee cup with its broken handle

Your beard would kiss against its rugged brown texture

And your discarded guitar with their worn out strings

The rubber slippers still sleep underneath the door mat

Waiting for your rough skin to slip into their comfort

Your treasured atlas you mindlessly left behind

After our last road trip together that hit rough roads

The blue towel, black razor, wooden knife, ear muffs

Oh! The list goes on… of the things you’ve forgotten

No, it’s not the heart that must nurse its wounds

It’s in these painful objects where the agony abounds

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