Paul and Martha

I did not hear him

when he told me how she looked

in the softest of timbres breaching his lips.

I did not see him

As his mind's eye wavered, watered

numbly detailing how the deep red makeup

ran down her face, as she told him how

it would never work out between them.

And I did not have room

In my heart, hands, or worldview

To hold those fragile shards of feeling -

Nor did I ever tell him how I felt about the two of them,

then, before, or after,

my friends,

(let's call them Paul and Martha)

How I thought she only ever looked in his eyes

To see her own reflection, more kindly, more yearned for

than she'd ever seen herself elsewhere,

And how he only ever looked in hers

For the thrill of slaking something long-forbidden.

How is it that the precious so often visits through the breaking?

The breaking of rules, covenants, trust, promises, conventions,

in glamours, hastily conceals the breaking of hearts, hopes, and stories.

And I could not see the breaking past the breaking

For feeling so strongly the wrongness of the broken rule,

I could not comfort the broken heart beneath -

shrouded by my own damning perception.

And even now, the little judge within irks -

Begging, threatening, such that I might curate a stanza:

A more polished vessel to express that which I do not even understand -

As if more perfect words could better contain

The impossible weight of imperfect hearts.

Lost for words then, I have yet scavenged only a handful now

to sketch the truth of that scene:

I did not hear him.