We found a lone bench in the park that day,

A cutting wind turned collars of our coats;

You having just returned with words to say—

Confessions scrawled like autopsy reports.

I did not take your hand for well I knew

Cold sober eyes dissected my still form,

You could as well have written we were through

And spared the speech embalmed in sterile woe.

But you, professed pathologist of love

Compelled to deconstruct our sad demise,

With blade-sharp words and form-fit latex gloves,

All loving bonds, you did anatomize;

And love, stone-dead—you did resect its heart,

Then placed it in a jar upon a cart.