This Was We

When my heart was an object
you would hold it
in your crippled cupped palms
Your touch could dictate it's fevered pulse
Alive between your fingertips
Beating and breathing in your lovely hands
Wrapped around me
your touch defined it's very rhythm

Your reality would
recreate memory
Breathing life
Pulling at strings
to mock God's creation
You would possess me
without meaning to

Like a surgeon
bringing to life
some desecrated relic
In spite of all life's acrimony

My heart: merely an object
Cupped in your crippled palm


We flat-lined


The beating stopped
I opened my eyes to some separate reality
dowsed in scattered shadows and reflections
The life I led
strewn before me in photographs and sound bites
A collection of all the then
unfolding before my very eyes
A blatant fictional account of what love should look like
what love should sound like

This was we
You and me
Now, lifeless
without the you