As the blood left my face
I felt like I turned
into a black and white photo of myself
that ripped itself apart
falling into a heap of ragged pieces
about your tattered shoes
(closer to your soles than ever to your soul).
You look at me as though your cold, blue stare
could make me pink and 3-D again,
but you'd have to carefully assemble the bits,
hold me close to your chest,
and whisper the magic words
(some variation of the clichÃ© "I love you")
to make me whole.
You act like picking up the frail fragments would break your back,
like those words are some unspeakable blasphemy.
I need something to plug this heartless hole
in my torn paper chest
like some Purple Heart for my wound,
but you'd better say something, do something
before the wind deposits me at another man's feet.