Across breakfast

Look what the breeze blew in,

bacon cooling as you steal a seat

by my side with a casual smile

I swear I’ve mirrored before, caused before.

I’ve looked for you with reckless abandon,

but my heart refuses to dance,

pirouetting like that guy who won the lottery.

Refuses to sing like the redhead

under the sea, pining for foreign romance

above her swirling hair—everything pulls toward

the world above. She didn’t say the man I’d fall for

was dropping in. And I wasn’t falling.

This felt more like cautious soaring,

the moment before the coaster

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drops.

Last place you look

Broken hearts are still quite adept

at persisting, just ask my ticker.

He persisted like the clouds haunting

Washington, the rain pelting Missouri,

the heat slow-cooking Arizona.

Broken hearts are still quite adept

at digging. At this point the holes

are the treasure—never mind the riches,

dust within. Dig another.

I never had a map, just a duty,

the insistence of the dating ritual,

as ancient as the birth of fire. Work through

the grit, shovel in hand, I’ll pick you up at seven.

Don’t bother filling in the holes—

this feeling of emptiness suits me just fine.

And when she set up the meeting,

the breakfast, I suited up in my best shirt,

jeans, hair fresh as my shave. Just another hole

before work.

Broken hearts are still quite adept at hoping,

despite my best efforts.