When you let me go, you didn’t throw my heart on the floor.
You wrapped it in the warmest merino blanket,
knitted by your grandmother’s loving hands,
and cradled it in your arms like a premature infant
that might squirm and cry at the slightest unsteadiness,
and, bending at your knees, lowered it inch by inch
onto the embroidered pillow you’d placed on the floor,
the same one we shared during coming-of-age celebrations,
and winced as you pried each shaking finger away,
mouthing I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt you.
I fell apart the moment your hands left me,
shattering into a thousand crystal shards
scattered across the luxurious padded
room you’d carefully built for me.
But you didn’t break my heart. It just broke.
