The Glass Line

Back then when she told you about
how the view of laundry poles hanging from windows above your heads
can actually look quite pretty,
You chuckled at how earnest she sounded
and tried to ignore those
cheekbones like blades,
how they softened and looked like light pink apples whenever she smiled.

But she gazed at you with her moist puppy eyes,
her feathery eyelashes gently batting,
and that was when the sharp arrow of love
struck the thin line made of glass
that separated your souls,
shattering it completely before
piercing through your
heart.

Now fine shards of glass still lie within you,
and fester a feeling of guilt beneath the
warm glow of love itself,
as if it was not Cupid’s arrow that
ruptured the glass line, but
the Devil’s pitchfork.

The guilt taunts you with thoughts that gnaw at your mind,
and you question the existence of that thin glass line –
You think back to the time you were surrounded by
the mirth and chatter of Lizzy’s wedding.
She was beaming next to the groom with glistening eyes
and you felt a smile form on your face as you
imagined the experiences they must have gone through together
that couldn’t have been too different from yours;
the gentle kisses
the warm embraces
the comforting silence
the childish skipping
the delightfully exhausting bouts of laughter
the hint of caffeine on the tip of her tongue
the softness of her cheek resting on your shoulder
the way her thumb strokes your hand whenever your fingers intertwine
the wave of calmness that washes over you when you see her after a bad day
the skintight layer of safety that clings to you whenever she's near.

Then you remember that thin glass line,
and how its fragments hinder the possibility
of you and her in the shoes of groom and bride,
and you know that
envy has you trapped in a cage
that’s made of
glass