Bleeding Heart by Shelly Blankman

The Autopsy, by Enrique Simonet Lombardo, 1890.

Bleeding Heart

She died of a broken heart, they said,
abandoned by her lover, no words, just
a scribbled note. She crumpled it and
sobbed softly in the darkness, so broken
she could not speak, too weak to stand,
 too empty to care.This was her life now,
 her heart bleeding, her mere essence
 as fetid now as the fruit she ate until sick.

Day after day she waited for him,
losing count of sunrises, peeking
through ivory lace curtains until moonrise,
slipping now and then into dreams
of him there, holding her, his warm
chest against hers, their heartbeats
as one, like sweet chords. He stroked
her hair lovingly, swept strands gently
from her face, so he could look into
 her beautiful eyes that shined like sapphires.
 He had always told her that. And in the
 calm of his strong arms, her shivering stopped.

Except dreams lie and hearts break
and blood drains and pain lingers.

Weeks passed before they found
her, tearless and peaceful,
on the floor by the window,
curtains drawn. They said her
heart had given out. They didn’t know.

Hearts don’t talk. They just bleed.

Shelly Blankman

This poem was written in response to a Weekly Prompt.

Shelly and her husband, Jon, live in Columbia, MD sharing their home with 4 cat rescues. Writing poetry is a passion for her, when she is not doing scrapbooking or cardmaking. Shelly is the mother of Richard, 31, who lives in NYC and Joshua, 29, who lives in San Antonio, Texas. They are the prides of her life.