A Different Kind of Heartbreak

 By Alessandra DeAngelis

December in Texas Is sunny & open wide, 

Like a skylight. 

It's a smile that makes your cheeks hurt, 

An unmowed lawn, 

A mirror so clean, you think you can put your hand through it. 

 

December in Texas split my heart wide open. 

Not in a sad way, at least not yet, 

But in the way you rip open presents on Christmas morning: 

Quickly, 

Direct. 

It told me to hop in & I had to use both hands to climb up.

 It strained my neck. 

 

 I was caught off guard by December in Texas,

 In the way that you finish your favorite book 

And get mad that you read it so fast. 

 I was all toothy grins without a bookmark.

 I tore muscles and ligaments trying to see it all, 

Trying to climb to the top of my own laughter and see what would be coming next.

 

 December in Texas was an old Edison lightbulb,

 Flickering endearingly, yellow, dusty.  

I didn't know it would go out so soon, and I would be left with  

Empty glass 

And the outline of an electric flame.

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