by Sarah O’Brien
Heap of half-clean clothing serves as a throne for your phone, which holds a half-memorized number that you half-forgot to remember to delete. So what if he’s still the Emergency Contact to half of your heart. So what if he’s a disease that caused you sickness from the start. His memory stimulating severe damage to your half-functioning liver, ten pieces of fudge while insisting “just a sliver.” A glimpse of his gaze prompts promises; half-assed attempts to move on that leave you glaring down glasses half-empty, envisioning instead what he would say, what wacky witticism would be tossed your way: the wise-ass you get when you cross a poet with a donkey. Half-completed grieving, half-afraid to stop, to drop temptations, to roll with the punches. Bruises fade, but who else will humor your claim I like my coffee black as he hands you Half & Half? Who else will teach you the complexities of jazz, the half-whole diminished scale? You decide you’re better broken than half-heartedly hanging onto hands of handsome men who aren’t him.
[Featured]Digital Art Image Credit: a heart is not judged by how much you love but by how much you are loved by J.A. Spahr-Summers. ©Copyright 2015, Jeffrey A. Spahr-Summers
Snapping Twig – Spring – 2015
Vol: Feb 2015 thru Apr 2015