How to Bury a Heart That Refuses to Die
You left like someone closing a window
during a storm they had invited in.
The curtains kept breathing your name
long after your footsteps forgot the floor.
I still find your fingerprints
on ordinary things—
a glass of water,
an unanswered call,
the side of the bed that remains diplomatic.
Love did not leave me gracefully.
It dragged furniture across my ribs,
broke mirrors inside my throat,
taught silence how to scream.
You called it fate.
I called it arson.
You built a home in my pulse
then evacuated without warning.
Now every room in me
smells of burnt letters
and rainwater.
Some nights
I wear my grief like expensive perfume—
subtle at first,
then impossible to ignore.
The moon watches me rehearse
all the conversations
we never survived.
I have memorized the mathematics of loss:
one body,
two ghosts,
infinite apologies.
Still—
if you knock at my door
with your ruined hands
and your late remorse,
I might open it
just to prove
even ashes
can remember fire.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
