In our wedding pictures,
the scar above my lip
foretells of the battle of wills,
the constant sparring,
that ultimately tore us apart
On our last day of fighting
I hold your fist in my hand,
able no longer to be happy
and in your company,
carrying this solitary heart
to where it can rest,
never again to feel so alone
as when we were together
This poem appeared in Penny Ante Feud, December 2014.
©Danielvon der Embse
writing in airplanes 