The Day You Died

Something broke in me 

the day you died

and I thought

it was the relief of the shackle

you placed in me long ago

so rusted

finally uncoupling,

but it was only me.

It was the part that retained

the smell of your skin,

like pear and cucumber,

the night of our first date.

It was the part

that saw you sleeping,

black hair splayed on the pillow,

one breast bare, free of my sheet,

and the bursting of my heart

when you smiled as you woke

shameless and stretched.

And the part of my regret

at your inflexible betrayals,

because at the end 

there was no love,

no longing left alive,

to induce my sympathy,

only, i understood you were in pain,

and wished, somehow,

not for my sake,

there had been another way

to ease it.