Break It

I started this.
I tied the scroll to the pigeon,
and with my heart attached, I threw it from the roof of the tallest building.
It soared through storms, around peaks, through valleys,
until it landed softly on your hand.
It returned.
And to the rhythm of my beating heart I read the words, hanging onto them as if for my very life.
Though a thousand miles stretch between us, I let each word plant itself within me.
Though someone else holds you, I let each word plant itself within me.
Though really the seeds yield no life.
I face it. (nothing)
Everyday.
I want it. (everything)
Everyday.
But really, its an angel with no wings, a feast with no food, and a masterpiece with no canvas.
So I cling to this picture that brings me closer to the world, and to you.
But I cannot cling without footholds, without a rim to the cliff.
So I'll take this axe and let it fall on the bridge's ropes... take this vase and throw it from the window... take this heart and break it...
into as many pieces as there are miles between us.
I started this.
I'll end it.
And with anguish and pain and suffering, I tried to let it be... 

But it's a spear in my heart- so perfectly lodged that
I would bleed to death at its very removal.
So I snap off its handle, wrench it from my yearning chest- and all seems fine.
But every time it beats I feel the sharp head of the spear stabbing, shattering, ripping, freezing.

It belongs to you.

Only you can dig it out- healing, glueing, taping, thawing.

But you can't.

So with my hidden arrowhead,
I sit on the roof, and wait
for the next pigeon to land.

Its a speck on the horizon,
and although I long for the glass scroll coiled in its feet,
All I want to do is
break it.
All I need to do is
break it.

Just... break it.  
 

-- Nathan Noyes