The boy wiped his tears
and his memories
off his phone
off his heart
wiped her existence
from the core of his being
left her, forgotten
a relic on the mantel
tarnished without borrowed lustre
from his featherlight touch

(He swore off his gentle heart.)

many years later
he thought he succeeded
woke up without a hole in his heart
a blessing though short lived, and tainted with grey
everyday he scours his soul spotless
of the little boy inside
steps out of the house
an adult, feathered yet flayed
he gives his hatred of his being
to the soulless metal
of his racing bike
and the boundless fatigue he held closely
as he held his heart
knuckles red, blood against rust
damning as the moon
heated as the sun
hopeless as
the splinters of the stars

(Broken, yet not.)

the crowd shoves him in
to the withered station as he
takes a call
looks out across the top
tries not to trip on a strangers heels
he trips anyway and
so does his heart

a young woman, older than he remembers
passes in the rapids
of the opposing Acheron
she has ice cold eyes, depthless
diamonds drip off her ears and
bejewelled fingers hold the edges
of the purse on her elbow

their eyes meet
for a fraction of a heartbeat
he freezes, she turns away
he forgets the voice on his phone
as a late truth cuts sharply through
his scrambled train of thoughts
she let them go
he has not

(And this will leave its mark on him too.)

his dark reflection on the train window
yields a hint of red, stark against white and
he remembers the lipstick he had planned to gift her
on her twentieth birthday
that had fallen off the top, musty shelf
a memorial of times never gained, yet were lost
a tombstone for when he used to care, used to care recklessly
used to scatter his love over people who
did not cherish it

(It’s all in the past now.)


(Later, his fingers smudged the lipstick further, and he regretted not reaching out for her hand.)