My Valentine

Tortuously,
I keep looking for something
that isn't there
right now, at least-
I feel strongly
compulsive. I still seek signs
first thing in the morning
like that one unforgettable
affair
uncovered by footprint,
a betrayal disguised
as an innocent amble
an estrangement you
desired irrisitably
and unregrettably.

Now that I have seen
deleted texts sent and received
more than dirty fingerprints,
this is DNA,
a wound
Spring inside the rib cage
re-tearing old wounds
the clicking like rage
in my ear

and I see how naturally
this discovery
reveals a new PTSD
in me-

a bomb exploded
my heart imploded
screams held back
my blood ran out

but I stayed, trembling at times
to face the enemy
closest-
when he
finally turns around
and notices me-

clutching a lit grenade
with the same gripping fear
that has kept me here
holding on
for too long.


Painting by John Collier (1850-1934), ;The fallen idol; c. 1913 in Public domain.

Framed

♦

There was red on her neck-

He tried to strangle her-

There were blue prints on her right forearm-

He grabbed her too hard-

She had been painting mountains

And sky

They dropped a bomb, I mean “we”-

Tactfully, with precision, they said.

How is that done?

Never mind-

♦

She could see crazy coming back for her

Granite, he was her rock.

Assumption over blends shades of grey-

Let the colors come out

In every crack of Spring

Primavera,

The last step taken

Toward a conclusion

Hot or miss

The point;

 ♦

Of impact, of view, of no return, of intersection, of convergence or divergence, of terminal velocity, of it All, (in time)

It was all Artwork. 

Painting by Francesco Hayez [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.