What says the heart betrayed?
Does it count aloud the hours with resign?
Does it curse the astrological malign?
Like some kind of pulmonary Gemini
Mercury in self destructive retrograde
What says the heart scorned?
Does it wax poetic like a thorn-ribbed Edgar?
Does it quoth the Raven, “only this and never more”?
Like some kind of aortic carnivore
Flashing its fangs from the hunger pangs
Grinding its canines to bide the time
What says the heart bereft?
Does it recite macabre sonnets to what is left?
Does it hang its dampened cravings out to dry?
As the stave does the treble clef?
One can only hope it can’t detect
That to know of love
Is to know a hundred little deaths
a. duncan, 2019
Are you the definition of insanity?
Or am I?
Oh, it must be nice
To love someone who lets you break them twice
— Finneas, ‘Break my heart again’