A Series of Observations

I’ve been with other men since you, or at least I tried.

It’s as if on the day that I left, my heart remained on that train platform. Not even left safely in your care, but torn out of my chest and simply abandoned.

I had no need for it then, but eventually all things must return home.

My heart sat and decayed in that foreign land, and when I see you again it’s as if, after all this time, it still remembers.

It makes sense now, why I never welcomed those other men to stay. The part of me that they needed was consciously neglected and somehow preserved, with you.

The rest of me petrified to stone. I could be looked at, I could be touched, and desired, but I could not be reached. There was nothing left of me soft enough to love.

It must be muscle memory, for my heart to remember you above the others.

I need my it back now, even in its horrid state.

So it can learn something new.