Nothing Of Myself, Nothing

If you had asked me
when I was young,
I would have said

(upon the end of my first
and what I thought would be
my last and only love)
that my broken heart at least
gave me shards to throw
against every wall in town.

They made splendid noise
when hitting brick and stone,
even better when
I walked upon the crumbs
and crunched them into 
a clay-red dust with which
I stained every bar and
temporary bed I could find
for weeks and months after.

I got a little over it soon enough 
and said back then that I was
healed when I wasn’t at all,
but it was the right thing to say,
and it came true in time.

I must tell you
that it is different now, now
it has happened again and
I cannot say those foolish words
“broken heart” because now
my heart is so much weaker
than metaphor,
an aged and damaged muscle
full of scars and fat and bad motion.
I will not insult or weaken it by adding
this new desolation to its burden. Instead

I will call this a long howl of wind
as I try to move forward,
like the cry of a ghost
in my shirt pockets that appears
when I fumble past slips pf paper
that feel like they might have been
in her hands at some point;

I will call this a dimming of light
so subtle and so profound
that I re-imagine the color of pain,
seeing now instead of red everywhere
a gray fog that further blurs the dark
that’s already shoved its thumbs into my eyes
and leaves me sharply terrified
that I’ll never see a way past this,
that I am too old to do more
than grind it out from here,
day upon night upon day;

only letting go when,
spent at last,
spoiled for the future,

I am only left with her face,
voice, name, touch, and breath,

and nothing of myself,
nothing.

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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