I had a broken heart once. Piece by piece I worked to place it back together. A potent and flammable mix of crazy glue and sheer will. I thought, just maybe, it could be the heart it was before tragedy and loneliness.
You tried to tuck some stray hair behind my ear and for a split second it stayed, then wiggled loose, falling forward and poking in all directions. “You should grow it long.” My hair hangs past my shoulder blades now.
If the adage is true that home is where the heart is, I will be at home no matter where I go. My poor little heart. Krazy glue and all, it has shattered all over. Since you left, I’ve tried to meet new people. Some have asked me to dinner. I accepted a few offers, but found a way out before the first kiss. Maybe it’s better this way. Why give away something that’s in pieces?
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