Heartbreak is the wrong sort of letter
I am not scarlet, all shades of blue and green.
If I could have put you in a jar, I may have
your crooked teeth and crooked morals
the way your eyes crinkled up when you smiled at me in the morning

you turned tail, new idols and crawled inside
when I came towards you with coaxing fingers.
you are far away now, July a distant look in your eyes.
you parted me, picked me to bits, compartmentalized
and fell away, my pieces spread on your worktable in the basement
where once we looked for nails, rusted
to put a chain, all shades of blue and green around my wrist.

I burned what I had left of you, high, the bottom of the flame
(blue) was the color your eyes turned when you turned to the light in the morning
with crinkled eyes,
but I am still in your boxes, beneath comic books, coffee mugs
and a dart stuck in your ceiling above my floral chair.

I know that heartbreak is the wrong sort of letter
(not enough blue or green) so maybe it was
the reflection in the edge of your eyes (blue green)
that made it seem that way to me,
when august dawned bright
and I could not break your chain off of my wrist alone.