Broken.

I’m drinking wine.
At noon.
Without bothering to use a wineglass.
I’m doing this because my youth
ripped my heart out this morning
on the steps of a basilica
without warning.

For once
I disregarded my instincts
to be wary of good things
I let blessing cover me
without waiting for the other shoe
to drop
And everything I always said
about hope
came true:
it carries you
to the top of church steeples
and makes you believe in flight
only to push you off
without wings.

The newly-born idealist is dead
in the cradle now.
As she should be.
Because everybody who calls you beautiful
will untangle their fingers from yours
and ask you softly
to get out
of their cars.

So
it’s time for another drink
another poem
another tear
shed for the ugliness
of youthful
broken
hope.

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