The Dagger of the Past

They say the only way

to forget a woman

is to put her to writing.

So I write here today.

 

What can I say?

Am I suppose to lie?

Am I suppose to say how horrible she is?

Am I suppose to treat her like a ghost of christmas past?

 

Or am I to be honest?

To tell how it really happened?

What good will that do?

Won’t that make me remember?

 

Tall. She was taller than me.

With ebony hair when she called my name.

As flat and straight as the world in 1492.

Now i’m just a face in a sea, and she doesn’t live by the sea.

 

Her eyes were daggers

aphotic and whetted.

Meant to pierce

with uncompromising scrutiny.

 

But they did more than jab in and out.

The tip broke off in my chest

creating a permanent soft spot in her eyes for me

and an ache in my heart for her.

 

As the years grew old

and fate tugged at my shoulder

I yearned for a first kiss farewell

To keep the shard in place forever.

 

As the distance grew farther

between Her and I

Time did not approve

Of my accidental transplant.

 

It pulled and it yanked

pulling one stitch at a time.

and as the years went by

The shard became all but free.

 

Years of pulling and tugging

time grew weary and left me

to pull the shard out

all on my own.

 

I thrashed and I sobbed

as I pulled my hardest

And the shard flew out

and I was finally free.

 

But I picked up the shard

and brought it home

and locked in a lead box

My kryptonite sealed away.

 

But every so often

I pull out the box

and open it up

to remind myself of what once was.


 

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