Broken [Wine-colored Heart]

Fifty-eight pieces lying on the ground,
and your whiskey-drunk eyes burn.
The sidewalk chalk glitters in the sun,
but the ladybugs won't ever return.

Count to ten, and don't you dare peek,
because Satan wants your hand,
but since no one else wants to hold it,
maybe, just maybe, I could understand.

His breath still stings your deaf ears,
and those teeth are still at your throat,
but, darling, darling, he's really gone,
the proof is there in that wrinkled note.

Give it up, don't you know it's over?
He's never again going to let you shine.
Fifty-eight pieces lying on the ground.
Fifty-eight pieces colored with wine.
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Written for a contest.