every heartbreak at 21
will make the ground beneath your feet tremble
and you will feel disposable
like the impression they will leave you behind
on white-and-blue-striped creased sheets.
like the spotify playlist youve forgotten about
and the walls you thought were impenetrable.
but when youve learned
that your legs stand like the Parthenon
instead of autumn twigs
you'll unlearn the concept
of a boy's ability
to cut through your steel teeth
and garden bed tongue.

every heartbreak at 22
will teach you to plant flowers
and not to pick them.
and when a wound reopens
like salt on papercut
you'll recall a memory
not too far
and you will have mastered turning
those tsunami eyes
into a calm sea
instead of an enforced desert.

you are 23;
and the city could no longer fit
into the palm of your hands.
you'll realize it's overbearing enough
that people break hearts all the time
and will never have to worry
about seeing the damage
on their morning train.

you are 23
and healing
doesnt quite mean like what it used to.
every heartbreak
comes back in a second.
and in the next,
you get on with your day;
the same creased sheets,
the same bitter-tasting coffee,
the same route home.
only that home
always varied in meaning.