…and it was a serious game
Painting is a War
She’s eternally breaking the same heart
loving the salty flavor of his maimed heart.
As a girl, she would never play chess—
Let boys toy with war, she played hearts.
He would wake up to her bright red mouth,
touch his stitches and hear his replaced heart.
Her walks through the park became legend—
Her hands full of leashed, perfectly tame hearts.
She breakfasted the same each blond morning:
Coffee black and dry buttered toast with paté of plain hearts.
Of course she loved him—the way a cat
loves her catnip mouse—she hunted her game—hearts.
Each time he tried to leave he washed back like tides.
Her moon had marked his sorry and stained heart.