your heart grows two sizes,
beats in your throat and echoes
up and down your tear ducts,
your words come out concrete,
and you’re not surprised
when he asks if you’re made of stone.
he doesn’t know the wells
of your youth were always dry,
that the drought began
long before he came along.

they call you empty.
what else would you call
a well without any water?
they say look, nothing’s there.
your heart grows three sizes
and the lump in your throat
breaks apart into rocks
that line your weary walls,
gravel fills your chest
but they’re only looking for water.

he tells you water is life,
that the cracks in your
foundations look thirsty.
you open your mouth to speak
but your words are palpitations
and he doesn’t recognise
the sound of your heartbeat.
he asks you how long it’s been
since you were alive.
you ask him when he thinks you died.

your heart is huge,
astronomical, and your thoughts
burst like fireworks from your chest,
fallen stars called home,
they burn holes into the night,
find their place in the spaces
between the constellations,
they would guide him
if only he would look.

eyes shut, he wishes for rain.