Torn Apart

She grasped his coat,

that coat he always wore.

It stank of beer and coffee

and the waft of wind at dawn

on a sandy beach in summer.

She wiped her tears on its sleeve,

tutted, tearing at a loose button,

then bunched the fabric of the sleeve

and tore, at arm’s length

until it shredded, ripped asunder,

wrenched stitches, like a gaping wound.

Why, she screamed,

at the torn garment,

Why, again, tearing, could you not see

that we were always  destined

to rend ourselves apart?