It is a wonder to hold the heart
of someone you have never held.

Where their hands have kneaded
your words.
Dough to soften
wait
And rise.

A poet holds a thousand hearts
or maybe only one

Pen poised, and writing
Whatever words will wield.
Their grip can be so vicious
or perhaps so sweet and soft.

And whatever that grip may be,
they hold hearts,
To tear or twist,
Or tenderly touch.

A poet holds a thousand hearts.
Of those they've never held.

We are waiting to settle the rains.
As we have waited for many
many
years.

we are standing hand in hand.
Holding on
the way people do
when high-waters reach waists

The hand I hold is familiar to my heart.

soft
and sincere
And so like mine.
But quick and without callouses.
not a scar or scratch to see.

we are standing hand in hand
always.
There is no other way.
waiting to settle the rains.

And I know that I would run him away from
any harm.
Protect him
from every curse,
knife,
and word.

But I know that I am not shelter.
I am not the house to cover his head,
or the food to replenish his belly.
I cannot give him all of the things
they are taking away.

I am not shelter.

I am a heart.

I am a trip to the beach on a blistering day,
a drop of water in this desert.
I am a moment's peace in a hurricane,
a floating branch to cling to in this flood.

I am not shelter.

I am a heart.
and he is mine.

I would give myself away
as I so often do.

crack a smile
shed a tear
laugh abrubtly
or sit silent

Always with my heart on my sleeve,
where I have made a spot for it.

I would give myself away.
everytime.
if the person I am yeilding to is you.

And I will not hide anymore.
So that maybe
Maybe
Maybe we will teach each other
the serenity
In loving someone who let's you keep your heart on your sleeve
So they might see it.

So loving,
just loving
might come with less questions

I cannot give you serenity,
but if it meant you might find it
for yourself
I would give myself away.

For you,
I would give myself away.

I begged you to come in
to read me like a book
to feel the touch of my skin
to taste the promises on my lips
and whisper them back to me.

You did.
and more.

You cut me open.
Did everything I asked of you.
Read the pumping blood in heart
like the code of my DNA.
Looked to the blue and red twisting of my veins
traveled those lines to find me
like following a road map to the place
Where you could burrow deep down into my mind. My heart.

And keep that space.

I branded your name there.
The image of you.
Your back.
The outline of your shoulder blades through your t-shirt.
The way you look with your eyes closed.
Like you're trying to shut out the world.

and me.

Wishing I could be a part of it.

Wishing I could take up the space in you that you took in me.

Wishing you counted on me
like I counted your heartbeats as you slept.

That our hearts molded together like I so dearly believe they should.
That those words I wrote on that empty
Lined page

That they were wrong.

He doesn't love me.

I don't know what I did.

I asked you to cut me open.

Now I'm trying not to bleed out.

the world relentlessly confuses
Tragedy with Art.

We commercialize anxiety
and weigh the profit margin after the cost of therapy.

So that we can play again
and repeat.

So that we can feel whole.
Understood.
Real.
On the backbone of another's suffering.

On the bloodied palms of a fist held too tight.

On the dry cheeks of a face ravaged by tears.

We hold onto this pain.
We publicize it.

Push it like crack in the streets.

people mistake our breaks in reality
For redemption.
Corrosive acid.
that you can hold in your hand.

A broken heart still loves
Not in the way a whole or healed heart loves

A broken one spills love
like a bleeding, broken, bird.
A pail that's sprung a leak.

And it loves.
Yes.
it cannot seem to stop...
but like that pail, it loses
Wilts until it drops.

A broken one is
a heart unraveling.
A story unwriting
A life
unwoven and waiting.

To be refilled.
Restitched.
Healed.

Yes, a broken heart does love.