I ache inside because I can’t help it,
Bruised from any impact so long ago
That the marks have vanished on the surface
And all I have is the throb of it inside,
The memory of it,
The touch of it,
Which lingers on my fingertips,
Though I know it is not real.
It is the way a soldier feels
After losing a limb at war
Still thinking he can still feel it,
Can move fingers or toes
That are not really there,
Only what is missing in me
I hacked off myself
And live with the regret
Of my own stupidity,
And wonder if “he”
The subject of so many
Of her love poems,
Might feel the same way,
Moving fingers and toes
That are no longer there,
Feeling the beat of a heart
So deeply broken
It should not beat at all,
Yet still beats,
Each piece pounding
Out of deep regrets,
All this hitting me now
From a silly glimpse
Of her in the flesh
After she has existed
So long in my imagination,
How long does it take
To put the pieces of the heart
Back together,
Lacking all the king’s men
And all the king’s horses
To help me?
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