Fragments of Cassandra

I loved you
like lungs love oxygen,
desperate and automatic,
like something my body did
before my mind could intervene.

You became the rhythm
behind every breath I took.
And when you left,
the world did not end dramatically;

it collapsed quietly.

In fragments.

In the silence that follows
after glass kisses the floor.

I remember kneeling there,
trying to gather the remains
of a heart that once beat
without hesitation.

But heartbreak is cruel that way.

The first time,
the pieces are large enough to hold.

The second time,
they splinter smaller.

And smaller.

Until love becomes dust
pressed into the carpet fibers,
hidden beneath fingernails,
buried in places
your hands cannot reach.

So I searched for myself
inside the wreckage of you.

Pulled shards from my palms
with trembling tweezers
and tightly closed eyes,
because some pains
are easier to survive
when you refuse to watch them happen.

Still,
the smallest fragments remained.

Tiny slivers beneath the skin,
invisible until touched,
aching years later
at the slightest reminder
of your name.

And maybe that is the tragedy
of loving with your whole soul

every time someone leaves,
they do not take your heart all at once.

They leave pieces behind
inside of you,
sharp enough to keep hurting,
small enough
to never fully find again.

Yet somehow,
despite the blood,
despite the empty lungs,
despite every part of me
begging to harden.

I still love
like I’m breathing.

As if my heart
has never once been broken before.


Be’ahava,
Cassandra