Breaking
This is an ending, not a beginning.
You will write each poem off as just another fancy,
and I will continue furtively sending
crumpled scraps of poetry to every newspaper in town,
in my desperate attempts to finally strike gold.
I am a sunset in vivid fuchsia and turquoise,
streaking neon bright across the sky
but you, with your cracked ribs, vacant unblinking eyes,
blinding-white teeth, you are nothing.
When we fall it will be in pieces,
like a child’s puzzle torn apart.
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