Cutting Glass

So many lights dance on the broken frame,
the prism shining, the security of a bubble punctured,
colors swirling in the formation of membranes: the time
it takes to carefully manipulate, the fine craft of cutting glass.

You left your shoes here, along with your umbrella.
The shoes don't fit me; they are too small, contain
the worn toe patterns of you. I am nothing but a burden,
the reason you wear bandages on your heels.

To love is to sell out, especially if that lover is a man,
his eyes cut to only see you. So many lights dance on
the broken frame; we blow bubbles from the balcony.
I catch them before they drift, ruining them, only to make more.