Irony

I was about to get down to some serious writing,
however the air itself distracted me with its
thick oppression grasp settling into the room.
The thread of your last power over me, attached
like a moth drawn to the light in everything that I did.
The flame rising inside of me, stretching to reach its
own comfort and warmth, burning the peach shell
that slumps, cross-stitch over my heart. Skin I think
they call it, sticking like glue to my unsatisfied bones,
a shield of some description. I reached for the phone,
the half moon inviting itself in through my window
my luminous fingers posed on top of numbers,
tapping to our rhythm. As I try to remember the numbers
zero, nine, seven, four.. I count backwards, release my
grip slightly. Her loud echoing voice crawls into my ear
and orders me to leave my message, the words escape
quicker than I had imagined and my heart breaks into more
pieces than there are numbers. Nobody there to pick up the pieces,
and the rotten mess that was my heart looks uglier than anything
I have ever seen. Hardly the rose that I believed could blossom.