Broken Things

All I can do is write broken things.
Heartache. Winter. Cold pavement,
broken skin, the scratch of a cough
lingering from sick weeks ago and
all that smoke.

Too much of an ache now. Too much
of the innocence in my eyes, how they
followed her everywhere,
hands reaching for the trail of
her shadow and lips
begging for whatever
fragment of her
I could taste.

Loving her still is how I think
watching the water rise
in a sinking boat
might feel:
like soon it will flood my lungs, too.

Still tender like flowers just
opening, petals unbruised
and sweet—like
tree limbs unfurling in spring:
the sweet surrender
to warmth after months and months
of cold air.

That is the ache. The rub.
I think of
cracked tiles, earth
turned up under the tires
of some truck; tree limbs
downed fresh by wind and
the smell left floating
in the air:
pulp, wood, brokenness.
Of things too intricate
or intimate
to be glued back together.
♠ ♠ ♠
originally titled "a big gay poem," this is a portion of a larger piece that I've been writing about a broken heart, realizing that I am a lesbian, and being in love with someone who doesn't feel the same way. A simple poem for a complicated situation.