Picture Frame


I can feel the pounding of my heart beating against my convulsing chest.

I can taste the bitterness of my angry words on my tongue.

I can smell fresh Kleenex as it wipes away the clear liquid oozing from my nose.

I can see his face. It’s bright red, his lower eyelids brimming with tears.

I can hear my world shatter as glass and wood pieces fly through the air-cutting the picture face of the man I love, seconds after I watch his back walk out the door, never to return.  

I hug him; kiss his cheek and I tell him nothing matters anymore, nothing ever mattered.

He hugs me and kisses my cheek. He says he’s sorry, he keeps saying he’s sorry.

Who’s to blame this time around?

Maybe it’s me and my sick need to be antagonistic, to love in a way that isn’t normal.

Maybe it’s him and the black cloud that’s been looming over his head from years before I knew him.

Maybe it’s my unwillingness to change the person I have been for the last 20 years.

Maybe it’s him and his need to change me.

But maybe it’s no one’s fault and that’s just the way the picture frame had to break.