Not Purple, Blue

He broke her heart;   
and she painted her fingertips black  
which was the same colour as her Mother's hair  
who dropped her from the trunk, dead on time  
like the train that came to take him away,  
away to the sizable consequence of time  
that ticked round their minds without conscience of action  
like the men that laid next to barbie on the floor  
covered in clothes, ready for packing, jumping from the wardrobes  
she chose at Ikea, months before, when medical seemed close to medicinal  
and tablets seemed to ease the sleepless nights of lonely servitude  
that chained her to a machine with cogs and wires all askew and with thoughts    
of their own as they chose to embark upon falsified claims. It was a shame  
she was too weak to justify such claims with force  
and pack a heavy, metal fist to part lovers so completely compatible    
as thunderous as the parting, not sea but, land in the shadow  
of his damning eyes when the countries could not be changed  
and she felt beaten for a moment until she realised these bruises    
may not heal like the blisters on her heels and may leave her  
ever more lonely with the servitude of duty chosen over love    
and with all her suitcases packed for the, on time, train  
and with the wardrobes bare, chosen so long ago,   
and the first white hair falling from her head  
the warm air forgave her and her broken heart with the becoming of another cold, modern woman.