Malingering

I tip toe over broken glass with the same meticulous pace that I distance myself from a broken heart.

One and one don’t always align, and I fear the sound of shattering from a pair mismatched. Like magnets, only the opposite sides attract, but when pulled apart, a bit of myself leaves with you each time.

Under planetary bodies, rising sun and waning moon are no match for the tides that move me pensively in your direction. Were you any more poisonous, I surely still would long for just the slightest taste and suffer the lasting bitterness.

The home of your arms is lined with brambles so shallow they only pierce my skin. Alas, my buoyant heart rests at my surface to bask in the heat in your eyes – vulnerable for those thorns to pierce.

With closed eyes I meander around sharp debris, heart still aching, hoping that things will change. The scars haven’t faded, the pieces of me have not regenerated, and though in my latent pace I hope you return to me, I know that I’m shamefully malingering.

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