Mending a Broken Heart

You came in

seeking some kind of special love,

but I was already gone.

 

The record player’s

hiss and click

was all that remained

of our song.

 

There was a moment

when you maybe made

a secret, silent prayer;

maybe ruined,

maybe relieved;

I’ll never know, I guess.

 

I was travelling all alone in El Dorado,

picking up what work I could find there.

That the City of Gold was so hopeless,

I was unaware.

 

My feet led me to the door

of a tailor,

who taught me to mend clothes

as well as hearts.

Which seemed to me

the will of Jehovah,

for both of mine had come apart.

 

I came home

thinking that you would be waiting.

That I would take you in my arms

and kiss you hard.

I would lay you down so gently

and undress you

and I would tend your wounds

and mend your heart.

 

But that doorway,

it looked at me like a stranger

and the room was only occupied by dust.

The record player was gone

and so were you, my love;

I guess you’d given up.

 

If you read this,

know I’ve gone back to El Dorado.

That golden city’s not much,

but it’s there.

I left our favorite song playing

when I left here,

the notes hanging like dust in the air.

 

If you ever find yourself in El Dorado

and have a need to fix your summer dress,

let your feet lead you

to the door of a tailor;

come with a broken heart

and I will do the rest.

 

HG – 2017

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