The Battle

My broken heart

Mine

 

Your perfect indifference

Yours

 

Pieces

Slices

Chunks

I’m missing a few.

 

A slap in the face,

The cut to the artery,

Venom isn’t even necessary;

The wounds alone are mortal

 

If I sleep soundly

it is because I have stopped fighting,

not because I stopped loving.

 

Love isn’t measured by the slice;

It is the measure,

It is the cup

into which the heart pours.

 

Drink, then, drink deep.

Take your fill.

I have blood enough to

quench this and some left over to

pool in rivers at your feet.