There is this place
below the heavens,
below the heavens,
where broken hearts go to be fixed.
They are brought in to the back of a used bookstore
by people with grey skins
and cracked lips
who come bearing their pieces
in the centre of their cupped hands.
They all want the same things
put me back together please,
I'm tired of the darkness,
I want to remember how to laugh again.
But for some it's a little harder
to be told
you're missing a piece,
come back when you've found it.
These unfortunate few
shuffle out, overwhelmed,
too tired to raise their arms
to block out the blinding sun.
The one at the back has seen it all
sitting hunched behind his counter
surrounded by his tools and the memories
of all the broken love stories
he had to first feel
before he could get started.
Sometimes he sees them
on the streetcar, at the grocery store, by the post office.
For some he can tell they have healed,
perhaps they met someone new
because their skin glows
as if the sun lent them a few rays.
But his eyes are always drawn
to the ones lost in thought
still grey, dry and cracked
like shrivelled raisins
left at the back of the pantry,
forgotten.
left at the back of the pantry,
forgotten.
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