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The javelin of that featherweight emotion

Borderlines between soft chenille and rough callus,

Inducting itself into my heart’s asylum.

A once-maroon keepsake has turned its indigo back,

Alienating the adamant acquaintance,

That once laminated me with complacence.

Those brash words are hardly legible through the tears

That baptize sorrow into my lashes.

I loathe that chore to digest them like thistles.

I wish it was in a dialect foreign to me,

So I could disregard the candid truth

Of that edgy silence

As you stare solemnly across the room,

That acrid smell rising from the carpet,

Probably just my imagination,

A facsimile of the scented poison gushing through my heart’s chambers.

I search for that emollient,

To smooth my sandpaper corners

And replace the depth of my emotions to my soul that

You so proudly stole.