you tasted like shattered glass
and I was never one to walk away
from loving cold hearts and mosaic minds,
while mosaics are considered broken art
still sometimes I wonder if the same could be spoken of broken hearts--
mine never looked quite as good
        as the concrete and sea-glass odds and ends
configuration that sat brightly on my mantelpiece though.

   I also never quite figured out why my name always sounded
just as disjointed off your lips--
why my name never felt normal when it reverberated off the walls as
it was released from your gray toned voice
and why the syllables seemed to sound
less like a moniker, and more like a broken apology--
my name never rhymed with "sorry" but for some reason, it did
when you said it.
your name still sounds like a sin I have yet to forgive
and I've contemplated going to church just to hear
it be exposed to confession--
but I realize now that I confessed all the sins I've ought to say
and this feeling is merely the leftover aftertaste of
shattered glass and blood bitten gums
gnawing at the corner of my mouth.

you once told me,
"the past is the only thing that matters
because it never changes."
I don't remember what I told you,
but I don't smash empty wine glasses anymore
just to feel
like we never parted.