When the teacher tells us to write poetry about love, I tell her that the sound of a heart breaking isn't poetic. It's tragic. It's the sound of shattered wedding china, a thousand tiny pieces on the hard tile floor. It's the tear of old paper, wedding vows worn thin. It is the slip of the hand. The slow spread of a stain that won't wash clean. A permanent reminder.
I'm sorry that all of the notebook pages were torn and the pages set alight. That all of the pens in the world ran out of ink. I'm sorry, too, that my hand cramped up and my fingers refused to move.
They stayed that way for days, you know.
But most of all, I'm sorry that I never wrote.
We fell out of love the same way we fell into it - clumsy and crazy, with noise complaints from the neighbours.
