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.
