Her eyes,
the palest of blue,
stare back at me
through strands of blonde hair
and her cheeks are
a map of tears,
tears that she does not cry,
that it breaks my heart to see
as I hold her face in my hands
and want nothing more
than to hold her and tell her
that it will be alright,
that she is safe
and loved.
I cannot do that though,
because it isn’t going to be alright.
When hearts break,
love is the casualty of the pain
and there is so much pain
that her tears fall to the asphalt
and leave the Northern Cross
on the ground at our feet
as she snaps off a piece of Jasmine,
the piece she spared a week earlier,
and sticks it in my pocket.
I smell our tears, and Jasmine,
cinnamon whiskey and sadness,
as I kiss her lips and
taste her tears and tell her
that I love her,
over and over,
until she tells me to stop
because every syllable breaks
her already shattered heart.
So I do,
and I walk away
even though my heart was still there.
I leave and get in my car.
Tears stop me from leaving,
keep my foot on the brake
as I fight the urge to scream
and curse fate for all that is,
then I realize that I smell Jasmine
and have her love,
that if nothing else comes of us,
I shared precious moments with her,
ones that can never be taken away
or given to another.