He thought a bone shattered
A rib, perhaps
Something in his chest, at least.
It shattered, or just cleaved right down the middle.

She was abrupt, rude, almost
Straight and to the point.
If her words were a symphony,
She’d be staccato, short and sharp and
Leaving you wondering if there was a point to that repetitive noise.

He was a chorale, smooth and savory and lagato
A long soothing soak in the tub
A gentle wash of waves over the sand.
His words were rounded stones
His tongue felt-lined and soft.
When he spoke, his notes serenaded you
And you found yourself leaning forward to catch each
Harmonious line and shifting melody.

Together, she clanked, cursed
Destroyed anything pleasant around.
She crushed him, overpowered him
Distasteful dissonance and an F sharp where the
Key signature clearly called for F natural.

Either way, she broke him with one clipped,
Short confession
As sentimental as her usual tune
Despite its overarching message.
She loved him?
Inconceivable.
Things like her didn’t love
They clanked along, out of tune,
Tone deaf, a child banging on a piano
Violently punching and spasming over the keys.

She broke him, in half
A crack down the middle that slowly scritched and scratched its way
Until he was only connected by lungs and a heart in the very middle.

Love?
No.
She did not love him.
She could never love him.