Broken Heart

You wore a white dress
lined with black - your
lingering sense of death
was quite subtle tonight.

We sat by the fountain
next to the Jazz band,
I wanted to dance, but -
you refused, then broke
the silence with those
dreaded words;
'We need to talk'

I sat and listened while
you spoke; staccato
sentences spilling out
haphazardly. 'Sorry,
I don't know exactly
how to say this.'

I could sense it coming,
with each syllable that
slithered from your lips,
every little utterance,
and on the rare occasion
you managed it; every
single sentence

I looked at my watch,
it was quarter-past
nine before you finally
ended the torture;
'I've met someone else'

You Fucking Cunt!

I wanted to hit you,
but I couldn't bring
myself to do it, you
did your best to
provoke me though;
Telling me about
your new man, and
how much you loved
him.

An Argentinean doctor?
Good for you, now
fuck off you spiteful bitch.

The words remained
grey matter, I should
have said them, but
no - I sat and listened
to more. More staccato
shit that you tried
so desperately to dress
up; 'It's not you, it's me.
Can we still be friends?'

Can we still be friends?
Can we still be-?!

I should have left then,
but my heart wouldn't
let me. So I sat, I sat
and reminisced about
the time you and I
went down to Islington
and made love in your
dad's old van;
But that didn't change
the fact that you had
broken my heart in Milan.