I always hated the phrase “it was a cold and rainy day.”
It was a cold and rainy day when you left.
I can’t think of a better way to describe it.
This is not poetry,
this is a result of you leaving.
When you left, my heart shot out of my chest after you, foolishly thinking that it could survive on its own.
When you left, the sky collapsed because it fell for you.
They always say “if you love something, let it go.”
But when I was a child, I held tightly onto what I claimed to be my own and screamed “mine” when someone tried to take it.
When you left I didn’t scream “mine”
I screamed “please don’t turn me into ruins.”
and you shouted “you’ll be more beautiful than the Colosseum.”
If that’s true, why do I feel like smashed vases from broken homes and warped floor boards?
I am not a beautiful misfortune;
I am a caved in home
and you were the earthquake that wrecked me.