Who held the scapel
to your brain?
Who was it,
what was it,
that sliced away
the parts of you
that tied you
to me?

Like a blown lightbulb,
suddenly, you were
emotionless.
I didn't recognise the shade
of your eyes anymore;
a distant teal,
a cold grey-blue.

You pulled your hand
back from mine,
unwinding it from where
it was entangled.
That's when I lost my balance.
That's when I began to fall.

But you just watched me
spiral and tumble
through the darkness,
saw me plunge into
the abyss
while you stood, detached,
on the cliff.

I knew you could save me.
I knew that you could 
open turquoise eyes,
could smile in sunbeams
the way you used to
and the shadows would fade.
You could've easily
taken my hand again,
but you didn't.

You let me love you harder,
with the desperation of
an addict deprived 
of their drug.
You let me try harder,
watched me stretching out
that hand,
watched me visibly
holding on.

You were weak,
you couldn't do it.
Couldn't say the words
and see me hit the bottom.
So you left me in freefall.

How could you?

Until, with catastrophic timing,
you found the volume.
I did hit the bottom.
I did break.
I am broken.

Barely breathing...

But I don't understand.
What happened to my baby?

Who held that gleaming scapel
and both disconnected you
and doomed me?
Because this is not you,
not the man I know
inside out,
not the man who worshipped me.

Fractures that will not set,
a stranger holds the remainders.