Can’t really break what’s broken.
Can’t really wake what’s woken.
And when you open
to the mess on the floor
2 things become windexed-glass clear:
Linoleum tile could never cradle a falling heart
like interlocked fingers,
and no amount of men
could put these fragments together again.
No wonder it’s a sin
to love something more than God.
Staring at a broken heart
hurts like hell,
which is where God is not.
But that happens when you chase a dream
and love gets forgot.
empty promises via text message
and hands that hold hands
but are allergic to hearts.
Can’t really break what’s broken,
but it feels like it
when the pieces get trampled and kicked further apart.
Wish someone else could wake up and see
don’t have enough thumbs
for effectively catching a heart.
(1st draft…preview for you guys)