A Little Taste Of A Broken Heart


They say all cynics are eternal romantics,

Who’ve loved, lost and never found again.


Cynics are made of broken hearts,

Hearts that are all glass, old wood, wrappers

Crinkled cloth and dampened smells,

That once smelt fresh as summer.


Cynics are made of memories,

Of hair, old skin, of light,

And of all the laughter trapped within that light

Which once felt like Sunday afternoons under the sheets.


Cynics are made of conversations,

Jumbled words that make no sense,

Words that once completed them,

Now only remind them of promises that were never kept.


Cynics are made of reflections,

Of the past, where each emotion gets enlarged,

Love gets magnified, regret gets magnified,

To create a heady cocktail.


When a cynic kisses you,

You experience a lot more than just the rush of adrenalin to the head.

When a cynic kisses you,

You get a little taste of a broken heart.