It has been two years and eight months, it's true,
Since I realized that I ran out of the thread
I had used to sew the beautifully crafted wounds
That bled every single time you left.
Anger and disappointment rest where forgiveness
Once laid, basking in love's naïve glow,
Ignoring the breaking of my own heart and its resistance
As tears devastatingly, painfully, flow.
I look upon your stained glass memorial
And scream your name at the top of lungs made raw,
Hurtling piercing words with sharpened tongue's burial
While heart and mind open wounds like a ripsaw.
I shattered the stained glass that was you
Because your memory lost those colorful hues
With each step away that you decidedly took,
And colored them their bloodied truth.
