a broken heart

she scattered the letters across the table

in a way

it used to drive me crazy

She used to leave the change

splayed out across the table

in a way that drove me crazy

she used to leave all the doors open

but even the air in the house

mourns her

so I don't close them

because if I moved the letters,

the tears would come again,

burning hot and angry, 

and if I used the change

whatever I bought would end up in the trash

and if I took all the kale out of the fridge,

I'd end up

buying more

just to remind me of her

so I slouch through open doors

and cook at a penny scattered table

and stare at rotting kale

the air from the fridge, cold,

feels like my heart

and right then it cracks

so through modern life

one would wonder

why

there is no cure for

a broken heart