the poet (broken).

i saw him break like that glass of wine 
all his happiness fall to the pine 
and disappear into the dark between the boards 
until all that was left was the stain 
of who he'd been, smeared red like paint 
she said i am so sorry 
and when she turned to go 
her heel smashed the glass to shards 
i picked the pieces up and tried, oh i tried 
to put them together just right 
the edges smooth, perfectly aligned 
but when we sat on the porch looking into the night 
he said there is nothing here that needs mending
i promise you that i will write my own endings 
see i am fine, i am fine, oh no, i am glad 
this is the best lesson that i have ever had
so if he was never quite the same 
no more poetry and simple leaps of faith
just sharp edges and a pretty face  
well there's nothing anyone can really say 
but he says i, 
i have learned how to let go 
to push my sadness outside 
and latch the door 
i like how it feels 
to feel nothing at all
to never expect anything more