And then she was gone.
It was as if she was never there
to begin with, but he knew she
had existed, she left a note on the napkin.
Just a simple, scribbled heart, and all at once
she had become every pain he had
ever felt in his life, rising up from the
most secretive depths of his memories.
That one little heart tore him to pieces,
ripped him to shreds, made him speak
with malicious hyperboles.
How ironic that a ink blotted heart could
be so destructive.