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