Black is the color of my “true” love’s hair.
His nose a beak,
His chin, and aspects of his character, weak.
Why then, do I bother?
Well, I read once, that, “there are places in the heart that do not exist;
Suffering has to enter for them to come to be.”
And I’ve always been told to be wholehearted.

My blue eyed-devil suffered
From different variations of the same flaw
Or did I suffer him?
Or did I suffer, and in suffering, bring new flawed places to life?
If that is the case, then I should be called creator
God. Almighty in my abilities to generate where nothing was before.
And if I am so bold, so audacious, then wholehearted isn’t he?

I read again once, once again
That each time a heart breaks
There is more pain than the time before.
Medically this doesn’t make sense—
Shouldn’t the fractures be slightly more vulnerable, easier
To crack? Or is it that new compounds emerge—fresh and sharp
while ghost aches, echoes, and wind still haunt their ancestry?

Perhaps it is neither.
Perhaps, instead, it is not even a matter of the living and the dead,
But of the young and the elder,
And these wounded heart bones
Are simultaneously living new aches and old pains.
After all, I’ve also heard, that, “time is a white
man’s construct,” only serving as the bleached skeletal frame for our selves.

Picture that then,
The hollow-eyed skull of the universe
Watching as we give bits of ourselves away to time
So that we may under and stand existence—
Create those “new” places with the patches and sewing
Of our old hurts, and the stretching and tearing of new.
We become wholehearted.