How do you measure heartache?
Is it the way you do an earthquake?
Is there a more painful splintering,
or a more bearable cleaving apart
of the heart?
Up to me, I’d measure it differently.
The number of bowls of ice cream,
or cravings for hot daal and rice.
Or by the days I begin with puffy eyes,
translucent skin holding an avalanche
of grief in.
If I self medicated, (and tried to be placated – a rhyme I couldn’t ignore)
I’d need a kitten or two, (the more helpless, the better)
more comfort food and frappes and vegetating in the sun.
But in the truest heart of my mind I’d know,
the night belongs to thoughts of you.