I thought she was like me,

The practicer of goodbyes,

The mover on’er

The cutter of moldering ties.

I was wrong.

Had I known how long

She’d still be broken,

Would I have broken, too,

What remaining pieces in me

Were still able to be broken:

Lost shards, tossed about,

On the floor of my soul.

Some things are too hard to see,

They must come slowly,

Like our failure to answer,

Unanswered prayers,

Or to stop the cruel rendering

Of her chronically tender heart.