How’d you explain a heartbreak without a heart?

With a broken glass chandelier serenade, or perhaps wine glass without any wine to pour. It was there, on the bedside table – a photo of the mister with the minstrel, collar with the pet.

 In the last few years, the denim had faded to a light grey and my heart had grown accustomed to midnight music, serenade about a lust soaked in forbidden ideations; now under the moon of the midsummer noon – I’ll say this once, not all heartbreaks have a heart. 

Now, as the church bells ring at midnight he sleeps with his minstrel and I with a heart and my sanity.  

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