Your Broken Heart is Mine

You put your pale hand in mine and it was warm, deceptively gentle, unexpectedly heavy pinning my palm down on the seat of the couch. I looked at you. You seemed calm. There were kids playing outside, and that neighbor that just won’t stop with the yard work. At that moment time seemed to not stop but stretch like chewing gum extending the moment to minutes, the minutes to hours, hours into days, and days into years. The sounds seemed to fade. I held your hand thinking I will never break his heart. Never. I believed in this. It was what I wanted to do. I wanted the here and now to be forever. I wanted to read about the world as you saw it as you wrote about it. I closed my eyes next to you and slept like a kid sleeps next to their parent. You were still, you were calm, you were present and invisible at the same time — shape shifting bending light, coming into view when it really mattered and knowing when to take a step back and let others shine. And now here we are, going in for another fix for your broken heart. And I can’t shake this irrational thought that somehow it is because of me. Is this narcissism? Is this guilt? Is this just trying to find a reason why this keeps happening? I held your hand, you closed your eyes, the hospital equipment beeped on, I had to be strong, I had to think positive, this was not about me, I was here for you, but everything inside me was splintering, breaking, glass shards were flying across my lungs, in my heart ships were colliding, up and down my neck cities were flooding, as blood rushed to and fro like a kid was raising hell in a tub — every thought and wish for him or herself, they ran in all directions. Save yourself they cried… Oxymeter beeped and I snapped back, I smiled and squeezed your hand, you opened your eyes, and made your fake “I’m sick frown” with your lips, I knew you were ok, I knew you had to be ok. It was still about me. I didn’t know how to live without you. I simply had forgotten how.

E. Saglamer

October 15 2017