Safe

I have hidden our secrets
In a box on the back shelf
Of the closet, where I cannot
Reach without standing on something.

All of our secrets are wrapped
Very simply, plainly, in fact
And packed up with care.
They are safe on that shelf
From prying eyes who might
By accident spill their contents
To the world.

We do not have a ‘we’
Anymore that means both of us
Now are two separate ‘I’s
Bound with thread of memory

What is on that shelf
In the back of my closet
Is locked up in my heart
Where no one else can come close
To touching the places
Our secrets are resting
They remain undisturbed
And my lips remain closed.

Someday that dial may be turned
By an expert hand that will know
The numbers and codes
Our secrets will then see the light
Of the world, but only in halves.

Mending—Metamorphosis?

I fear, she said,
That broken
hearts may mend
like broken bones.
That, when
broken
they mend
stronger.

Which means,
she mused,
That the act
that breaks this
heart anew
must be
correspondingly
more terrible than
each act
that broke this heart
before.

But, would that
also mean
a heart re-broken
may harden
to stone?