It’s hell on the heart,
and stains on the soul.
Leaves the blood boiled,
and the lungs like coal.
A pit in the stomach,
and a scratch in the throat.
Bloodshot eyes rimmed with red,
your body poisoned without antidote.
It’s a helluva thing, isn’t it?
Feeling it all at once.
That it only takes a single minute
to ruin the work of months.
I’m talking love, of course
Or rather it’s painful loss.
For it takes only the briefest moment
to turn all that’s fair to dross.
And so here one shall sit,
ashes still fresh on the tongue.
Dreams filled with the thought of them
and the life that had begun.
But that loss is now all that remains
and all that time for naught.
And so the heart hurts every day
for what it wishes could be forgot.