Three weeks in your heart keeps breaking
Your heart is still broken, continues to rend itself, slip and shred and rift on rib. Heavy, leaden, but drippy and soft and leaking gore: your broken heart as you lay your head down, your broken heart at Bank and at Holborn and at Tottenham Court Road. Your broken heart breaking. You, breaking your broken heart. Cracking it, egg of muscle, on the south bank. Cracking it, bloody egg into the Thames.
I miss the sound a baseball makes as it breaks the bat. I miss the bay, the grey surface of the water, Mt. Sutro (disembodied boat) rearing up in the fog. I miss beer in tall glasses, ERIC laughing behind the bar, and I miss cigarettes on Fell, looking D in the eyes. I miss that achilles tendon. I miss the electrical wire, and the blue hard hats, and the fog horn. Tonight I miss the fog horn most of all.
I would do anything to ride my bicycle to the lake. I would smother myself with my bare hands to hear your voice. I would suck on the joints in your shoulder and make you call my name out underwater. You, not talking: I’m listening through your ribs to your blood. I’m untethered and heavy. A hand with three fingers up inside my sternum: lifting up and out and hunched. Just off the floor, my feet, my tired feet.
In thick, in mess, in ache for otherwheres, I take myself west. As far into this place as I can. To the heart of it, where it beats loudest and drowns.