The Sound of One Heart Breaking
by: Karen Kunawicz
What is the sound of a heart breaking?
It is the sound of someone curled up in a
tiny ball crying softly in the night,
the sound of the first unwanted teardrop
touching your skin, it's the sound of
a telephone that doesn't ring,
the sound of regret
pounding inside your brain
with every heartbeat,
it's the whispers
of the toy animals he gave you.
It's the shuffling of feet
walking away from you,
the sound of your soul shattering
into a million pieces
at recognizing the word "goodbye,"
it’s the soundtrack of memories
torturing you, it's the sound of
feeble hands trying to push back
the obstinate hands of time,
it's the sound of a cherub's
dying breath, the sound of
all those years disappearing
in the vortex of Cupid's kitchen sink,
it's the unrelenting plaintive
baby meows of an abandoned kitten
outside an ignoring door.
It's the sound of the rain
that doesn't ever stop,
the sound of all the doors
shutting and closing in your face
at the same time, of raging,
howling storms in the night
when there's no one there to hold you,
the sound of your voice
as it screams back at you,
the echo of "I love yous"
burning holes in you,
the sound your heart makes
as it tells you to lie still
because nothing you will ever do
will matter without love.
The sound of the waves
of the polluted beach you went to
as it moves from the shore
and crashes inside your mind,
of the sniffles that make up your pathetic
"SOS-to-the-world," the cracking of the
brittle black-red petals
from the sidewalk vendor
roses he gave, the sound of the music
he used to make going to your gut.
The sound of things in your room
being thrown around
and landing on the floor,
the caress of kitchen knives on skin,
the sound your throat makes
as you swallow your saltiest tear.
It's the sound of your own voice
calling out to someone who isn't there,
of dying birds getting splattered
on a city pavement, of terms of endearment
used a hundred times a day
struggling to crawl into a
vacuum of forgetfulness,
it's the sound of your own sobs
keeping you company,
it's the cold, uncaring stillness of the air
you share your space with.
Destruction isn't always as noisy
as bombs exploding.
Sometimes the ultimate catastrophes
are as quiet as a feather
falling on the floor of a Zen monastery.
No one else can really hear
your heart breaking except you.
