Sincerely, Amy Lee

I was a stony fixture in my own life,
a hardened heart,
sculpted by hateful hands,
then healed, rebuilt,
by grace.

I found joy again.
Quiet, deliberate,
protected.
Fortress walls stood high,
a solemn vow whispered:
never again.

I sought no love,
only peace,
and the safety of solitude.

And then,
there was you.

You came softly,
unexpectedly.
My walls began to crumble,
stone yielding to the sound of your voice.
My hesitant heart
learned to trust your touch.

I laid down pieces of me,
pieces I had guarded fiercely.
You gathered them
with gentle hands
until you didn’t.

And then you broke me.

A disappearance.
A reappearance.
An act
to rival Houdini.

I clung to the memory of you:
to words,
to touch,
to the illusion of future.

My heart,
your willing assistant,
in this vanishing trick.
Was it love I felt,
or love’s reflection?
A prince come to shatter my walls,
to prove love could still be real.
Perhaps only
the idea of you was.

You left behind
a broken heart
and the echo of a moment too tender to last.

The applause is thunderous.
The audience, enchanted.
And me,
just your final act.

Congratulations,
Mr. Houdini.

And now the magic fades.
The smoke clears,
the lights dim.
I am left with only
a faint feeling,
a flicker of what once was.
My heart no longer aches,
only hums quietly,
steady again.
So I gather the pieces,
stone by stone,
and build my walls once more.