I can’t fix it.

A broken heart is not a thing,

Like fallen Christmas ornaments,

Shattered by a fall onto unforgiving tile.

Your hot glue gun and furtive effort:

A practice in valiant futility.

Such a tender artifact, once hurt,

Must be received with care, and

Gentle lullabies sung from

lark and nightingale,

soft,

To pacify the fragile infant broken

By sorrow.

A temporary invalid-

“It’s only a phase”-

Should be spoonfed,

By a loving caregiver,

Saccharin words like molasses or a Sinatra song.

In elementary school,

The nurse could solve any ailment

With cough drops and band-aids.

But an illness of the heart

Is immune.

It is not a broken toy.

It doesn’t need new batteries

Or tape or Dad’s tools;

No matter how many times I try,

Only with Time might my tears dry.