The Hurt

The hurt was histories old but the purple bruise was aching new.

I was thinking how, when divided by time, sadness spreads slyly

in proportion, its division a commensurate multiplication. In

framed moments it becomes fathomless, uncontrolled, drifting.

When does love die? It’s always well before the act explodes,

when the mind struggles with a new stage, a tiny shock, a sudden

pang of disappointment that never really disappeared but grew.

You saw none of the plain evidence, rehearsing instead the past

illusion, eager to please, quick to dismiss the vandal ghost that

wanders through your rooms breaking things. But you missed it,

so you fix the smile, turn up your chin, turn down the bed, and

hope for the best as painful silences cluster around your head.