Sometimes, Anyway

Sometimes, Anyway

by M. F. B. Porter

If I could rip my heart out and

hold it in my hand,

sometimes I think

I’d cut out the pieces of you.  

After so long, why does

so much of it belong to you,

anyway?

Sometimes I think,

if only I could

reach inside my mind,

I’d pull out

all the thoughts of you.  

Why are you in

so many of them,

anway?

Sometimes I think,

if I could repaint my past,

I’d smear away

all the memories of you.

Why do you appear

in so many of them,

anyway?

Sometimes I think,

if I could look into my future,

I’d still hope to see you

there, a shadow around

every corner and a figure

on every street.  

People never really leave us,

anyway.