Broken hearts must not bleed.
They must not leave an obvious trail because I walked by you,
every full and busy day,
and your smile did not hint of your hemorrhaging heart.
Your eyes did not mirror your interior paint-peeling, beam-bending, roof-crashing pain;
though, I did miss the twinkle, now that I think about it.
We brushed shoulders;
we shared space;
we breathed air.
I knew I was weak, but you . . . oh, so strong.
We exchanged “How are you” kinds of small talk—
queries that either have no answers or flat-out lies of “Fine.” “Good.” “And you?”
But it wasn’t good, and isn’t good—neither you nor I.
How many hearts bleed silently and unknown—
how many hemorrhaging lives do we pass shoulder to shoulder?