The Song Of The Soul 

My heart is the rhythm and it had me singing and my body is left to hold onto the beat.

Yet across from me the chef is trying to do something unique

but blend into the crowds at the same time.

So strange how that actually works and

doesn’t look like he’s barely gripping onto reality.

No, he looks fitting in that contemporary singing of my fragile artery

. I shall take a polaroid,

and I see you posing while I do so.

Looking so photogenic in the elegant style

you don’t know you have poised in grace even as you

mold yourself in the badly rhythmed crowd.

It's unfortunate for me to say that you don’t fit those awkward puzzle pieces,

darling,

as you are the shape of a knife in my chest,

so you must know by now how the beat and dance go.

but then again even as I say that I feel little white lies bubble up as I say

“ he's not anyone special, he's just the man who decided to

stab my heart one day but didn't slice deep enough to enter in”.

I don’t have a reason why though, to lie.

To lie when the mark of your razor-sharp broadsword will leave a

piece of my rib cage chipped,

two disconnected pieces of bone are stuck broken and left with the missing piece.

Otherwise, why else would I want your knife to stay there?

You may have the bonus of your sweet, tender smile,

but the fact is without you I am nothing but a broken rib cage,

that when next time someone tries to shoot in they’ll cut and tear my heart wide open with a guarantee.