Across breakfast

  Look what the breeze blew in,

  bacon cooling as you steal a seat

  by my side with a casual smile

  I swear I’ve mirrored before, caused before.

  I’ve looked for you with reckless abandon,

  but my heart refuses to dance,

  pirouetting like that guy who won the lottery.

  Refuses to sing like the redhead

  under the sea, pining for foreign romance

  above her swirling hair—everything pulls toward

  the world above. She didn’t say the man I’d fall for

  was dropping in. And I wasn’t falling.

  This felt more like cautious soaring,

  the moment before the coaster

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  drops.

  Last place you look

  Broken hearts are still quite adept

  at persisting, just ask my ticker.

  He persisted like the clouds haunting

  Washington, the rain pelting Missouri,

  the heat slow-cooking Arizona.

  Broken hearts are still quite adept

  at digging. At this point the holes

  are the treasure—never mind the riches,

  dust within. Dig another.

  I never had a map, just a duty,

  the insistence of the dating ritual,

  as ancient as the birth of fire. Work through

  the grit, shovel in hand, I’ll pick you up at seven.

  Don’t bother filling in the holes—

  this feeling of emptiness suits me just fine.

  And when she set up the meeting,

  the breakfast, I suited up in my best shirt,

  jeans, hair fresh as my shave. Just another hole

  before work.

  Broken hearts are still quite adept at hoping,

  despite my best efforts.