Love bends each branch of misery to fit her sadness
after she’s moved on.
She is a she, love.
nothing else can be so purely cut.
(lust is a man though
unthinking, unbridled, pleasure-filled pain.)
You feel what she feels, love.
and she feels every nick and slash
from words, to touch, to dead stares.
At the same time she can make you feel nothing
and that nothing never felt so heavy,
the emptiness has no walls
and it goes on forever.
Don’t be fooled by her smiles though, love.
she takes no joy in this pain.
she’s only learned to live in it.
Worse then the deep pains caused when her heart was pulled away
is the throbbing ache that is left in its place
which will never cease
and when she drops to the floor sobbing
its merely her body wincing from a wound that never healed.