The day you spent lunch talking

to a girl with golden hair,

your eyes sparkled like crystals

of snow being warmed by the sun,

and your lips were pulled upwards.

You gazed at her curves the way a pianist

placed their fingertips on the black

and white keys; you couldn’t wait

to make music out of her, to rewrite

the symphony we once carefully composed.

I sat at the other end of the table,

hiding behind a copy of Eleanor and Park

and munching on kettle corn, thinking

of the days when my muddy, brown

hair used to coil around your fingers

and when your shoulders would shelter

my head; I’d close my eyes for hours

in the comfort of your arms wrapped

around my waist, knowing that you

wouldn’t let anything pry us apart.

Then, amid your conversation with her,

your eyes met mine, and the sparkle

vanished. My voice was wrung

of its melody, and my lungs wrinkled;

everything inside of me shattered.

Claw marks seared my heart tissue,

tearing it in half as violet bruises

scarred the ventricles. A cold breeze

sliced through me as you walked

next to her, your fingertips anticipating

the velvet texture of her hands and the

way her heart was carved like glass,

thrumming against her chest; I felt

like dust tossing in the wind,

withering away with your last steps.