At The Cafe
I heard her say to the teary-eyed lady
as they sliced their custard creams,
" Move on and go find someone else"
As if suggesting to take that knife and slice
that face out of her brain and replace it with
another. As if perhaps she should cut out
her heart and separate it from the rest of
her. I suppose the thoughtless lady was only
trying to help. I suppose that's normal procedure
in such circumstances. Like quickly go find a
lollipop for god's sake.
I felt like saying to the broken woman;
wait a bit. No need to be in such a rush.
This terrible ache, this fierce wrenching
this oozing sore is love disguised.
You'll come to it. You will. No substitute
necessary.
That someone else is waiting
in the dim horizon, fresh faced and true
with eyes that pierce through
the mish mash of dough and syrup
of wounds and ruins of love and war
and sharp metal objects.
That someone else is you, whole
and undisguised.
You can't rush that.
You'll come to it
You will.
The sorrow of loss, breakup, the slow journey through the shadow into acceptance. Finding oneself in the midst of despair without trying to find a new fix.
