We’ll call it heaven but it hurts like hell.
I keep trying to fill my bucket at the bottom of this well,
and I keep coming up empty handed.
Granted, I never put my whole heart in.
I never begin to let go, lose myself or fall too deeply,
too madly, too completely.
Truthfully, I don’t think I’ve even come close.
I’m like that meniscus in a glass of water
dipping so slightly away from parallel.
Grasping for the surface. Clutching at bendy straws
that the waitress at Denny’s always gives too few of.
I’m like a dove with broken wings.
That walks across the street, not humbly inspired
rather intended for flight but relegated to the ground.
When a heart breaks does it make a sound?
I couldn’t tell you. I keep reaching out for something
and no one ever reaches back. They say they got my back
but they really mean “I’m gunna need you to stop talking”
“I need you to go away now.” To never speak again.
But you said you were my friend. Now all that’s left is this bottle
and the pen. Hospital walls closing in and my freedom smells like sin.
We’ll call it Heaven,
Hell, we’ll call it even.
Tyler Strittmatter 