I find that ribs aren't broken by force,
The snap comes from initial shock
Of razor sharp silence.
Churning and grinding usually occurs as time rotates past
Like the wheels of a car that you hope to god would hit you.
Eventually, you realise that your ribcage implodes due to heartache
And the hearts desire to destroy itself
Before he, or anyone else, can.
It's a funny game of Russian roulette you play with people.
That one bullet in the revolver...
That one glimpse of a "maybe";
Maybe, maybe this one will be the one to stay.
And as waves pound the shore for forgiveness
You torture yourself with the thought
Of finally letting go of solitude.
Not before the silences consume every brain pulse;
Harder to digest than constant rumbling of crowds.