It finally happened:
She broke.
It was different than she thought it would be.
She had thought
It would be like
Uncontrollable bouts of crying;
Waves of restricted breathing;
A feeling of falling down an empty hole.

But it wasn’t.
It was more like
Even though it was
Plainer than day,
It was different than before.
She didn’t throw everything out
That reminded her of the person–
She couldn’t.
How could she destroy
The memory of the soul
Who changed her life?

On second thought,
I don’t think she broke.
I think . . .
I think a part of her died.



The vase wasn’t
But it had character.
It was set on the ground,
Never full of anything
Except dreams.

Then the boy
Picked it up,
Filled it with flowers,
Set it on a pedestal.
He took care of those flowers
And the vase became more beautiful
As the days went on.
One day
The boy forgot.
Days went by,
The flowers died.
Their charred ashes
Remained in the vase.
The vase lost its luster.

Then the boy came back.
The vase shone for a second–
But he wasn’t back for her.
He reached behind her–
Stroked the mirror the vase
Had never known was there.
His elbow jutted out suddenly–
The vase got the full impact.

It teetered,
Did a fatal dance for a second
And then–
Pieces lie all over the place.

The vase just sat there.
It didn’t have the strength to be out back together.
The boy didn’t even notice.
He walked over the shards.
The vase wished maybe
He would be pierced
By a piece
But he wasn’t.
He escaped–

But the vase would never be the same.

Because that is what it feels like
To be broken.