I spent time repairing beating cardioids like a profession; graspers, needle holders, and sternum spreaders sat comfortably on a veneered table living in the attic, mimicking an exotic surgical room.
The spiders on the cobwebs watched how the stitches were done, though none could patent the way my hand weaves the hollow of your chest, and how the edges of your broken skin wrinkle beautifully with every touch.
A mountain flower stood dehydrated on the window sill sipping the last drop of rain suspended in a styro cup as old as your aging soul.
The trees undressed themselves carefully just outside the door like warm teenagers feasting on the aftertaste of summer.
The fall visited early this year,
though a bit too late for the both of us.
I grew white hairs watering that amaranthine flower in your coffee cup; fervently fixing a battered heart...