The doctor says phantom heartaches aren’t chronic.
“Distance should stop the bleeding. Take ½ a Time pill before the moon remembers she will never kiss the sun.”
Distance hasn’t worked,
Time tumored around thoughts of your tongue touching my mind,
my wounds are infected by loneliness, oozing memories…
and the throbbing is as maddening as the night you ripped happiness
out of loins that have never learned not to want you.
The doctor prescribed a new heart.
He pushed it into the nothingness you left behind,
tearing through breast and bones that still refuse to stop being yours.
“I feel nothing.”
“You won’t die from not feeling.”
“Neither will I live unfelt,” I told him, my chest holed anew.
– for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.