A dumbbell in my ribcage, like a dead weight
on a chopping board, pulverised—
a change of air might do it good—
and yet still carrying on
with its tedious staccato,
as if nothing ever happened.
Would it shock the ladies?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Someone once said that having ideals is no great feat;
the real feat is, in the name of truly great ideals, not to falsify minute details.
I can see the ghosts lurking behind the words as I write them—their eyes
fixed on the page, following the rasp of the worn nib of a fountain pen
that meticulously records all the petty grievances of a little man at odds
with a broken heart I’m not yet ready to give up on. Absolution, after all,
begins with oneself.
I was born with a broken heart—perfectly imperfect
with every blood-stained handkerchief and every letter
from my solicitor—but that’s probably still better
than being heartless, I guess.
You know it’s time to leave when every breakfast becomes an act
of desperation, and yet you prolong this little la-la land in denial
as if a stuffed croissant with café au lait were the epitome of certainty.
Didn’t you admit long ago that someone else had already spared you
from the hell of paradise? Knowing you, I doubt you have any desire
to answer. If anything, you’d pretend there was no question asked.
And there is still the unrewarding experience of returning home,
which sounds a bit melodramatic, even for someone like you,
but if you wanted to, it could simply be reduced to a logistics problem.
After all, a broken heart can’t find solace in complaining about cold feet.
hidden pilcrow 