The Heart

Come all the way here and I will whisper so sweetly to you.
Call you forth with the sweet melody of my form.
Believe in you, as the earth believed in me when it built me, my skin and my limbs.
I am but a particle of dust, a grain of sand, that famous and unspeakable first notion.
Who spoke of passion, of time?
Who spoke of an impetus for change.
A green audience, the blades of grass.

I am that original product, I am that first idea.
I am that impossibility, made manifest by the yearning.
Him for her, her for him.  The way I feel now about you.
Take this poem of love and know that I've only just met you.
In a battle with myself, I reach to find you, your silky impression, subtle smoke wafting among the swirling landscape of my life.
I meet you there- a whisper on the wind, and I harmonize slowly with you, for fear of blowing you too far away with my thundering bloodshot heart.
All ropy scars and wounds still sneezing out their goodbyes, healing and disappearing all too slowly. I hope you don't see what you wouldn't want to see.
And I hope I don't judge you too quickly.  Put you in a jar in the refrigerator with some outdated label marked wrong.  Ring out the sound of your voice and trap it on some old voice memo. Category of past, present, future- say "I know you," say "I love you," say "I once was like you."  No… I won't do those things prematurely, won't bend you, mold you, coerce you or me.  I won't subject you to such violence.  I won't make you what that hidden part of me might want you to be. I'll let you be as you are, oh I will try not to pin you between my knees or lock you inside cold glass.  Of what is this, and will it last?

Instead I embrace the sweetness of your form today, the delicate flower of your essence, your delicious exhalation and I trust.
I long to open to you and embrace that mystery, the one that speaks of right now. Further along, when more nooks and crannies of ourselves are revealed, I will think I know you then, but of course, I never will.
So many times I lost
because life pried my hands shut and shut eyes open.  I hope that I find you there, my beloved, your features and attitudes molded into the skin of this new beauty, his precious love so new.
My beloved, I've found you. Again and again, in the gathering clouds, in the winking rain.  In the soft, warm earth upon my bare feet.
I pluck you from that dry desert.  I rub you clean of dirt and cactus spines and press your sweet red juice between my lips. You are not unlike this young man I've found, not unlike his long limbs and the lines that wrinkle his face repeatedly into fabulous, reverberating smiles.
Oh sweet kiss!
I can't help but look for my beloved in him, this sweet one who bowed my violin heart unexpectedly at first glance, took my breath and tingled my hopes so definitively.

I argue with myself, as if it's some offense to even try. As if there is bitterness in this longing, as if there is loss even in the finding.

 I'll try something new. I'll open, I'll embrace this without fear.  Let me have it, all of it, without knowing if it will last. For what is something that lasts? Show me one thing, and I will show you withering and death. But does not the flower gracefully give up its life under the cold vigil of snow? Let me open, and let me let go. My prayer is imperfect, like the skin that ages, like the feet that ache after many many miles of walking.
But beauty withers not with age or time. And so this love is sweet and new, and has already blossomed, succeeded and renewed itself, and by the very nature of itself is newness.
It is in and of itself a delight. It is, in and of itself, a success. It is delicious! It is water for the thirsty plant. It is a promise after hopes were dashed.  It is the rekindling of faith in a young heart who's already grieved thoroughly, because she gave so much love and lost it anyway. To violence, and yet still longs.

Does she even deserve any more, a true love? Has she really turned this bitter, sweet pure heart, once so young and faithful? I hope to heal the bitterness because she gave up on that love.  She had to, I know, but her loyal soul is still reeling, wanting to love the object that betrayed her so. Cut her, ripped her, smashed her, broke her.  That's what they say about hearts.

But I say no, a heart cannot be broken. A heart is not a thing, not the muscle that beats within the chest. Not some metaphor, or that symbol drawn by children upon the blank page. It is not sweet adoration, the source of infatuation.

The heart is much nobler. The brightest star in all the galaxies, above below and beyond. Beating not for anyone, drumming its sounds into infinity.

I am yours it says, straight to the heart of its own beat. It promises, promises to be true. Forever, I do. Heart of love, I am yours. Take me and direct my course. I surrender.

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Photography By Sage and Bone

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