The Broken Heart

I hold the velvet handkerchief; its crumpled form is barely felt against my hardened skin. Memories soon replay themselves, and I crush the white memento in the coils of my fist. Yet still I long for her, and bring the perfumed article under my nose. A moment there, standing, and I am not myself; but soon returned, the unblemished fabric is cast aside.

Some weakness left, some part still tender, costs me one repentant glance, and I watch the fluttering flight of the white handkerchief as all I ever wanted falls into the soiled streets. But I was done, and I knew no one would ever love me.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.