​It doesn't look like a heart.

​If I saw it lying somewhere
in the street
I would

hesitate

& step over it.
It doesn't look like a heart.

I often see it
​in visions;
see myself
try to pick it up,

handle it,

​hold it
& show it to the one
who loves me.

I never know how to hold it.
​It doesn't look like a heart:

So full of holes
​& stretched out
​& bloodied
& dirtied
& still kind-of pulsing;

​So stubborn!

​I pick it up with two fingers
​just at one corner
​(trying not to touch it
​too much) &
​it hangs down
​like a soggy ex-something
now used for cleaning
​kitchen counters
​& tables & (in the end)
floors

​(a horrible thing to handle without
gloves)

I cup it in my hands then
& hold it up
to him,
​crying tears over it
​& breaking it more

​(cause it doesn't look like a heart)

​& I don't know what else to give.
​

I see your lips moving
​& hear you,
​but your soul is shouting
louder
​and it's not saying the same.

I see you
lying
& trying
& I love you for it.

​I know you're doing the right thing.
I love you for that too.

​You're leaving me.

I see you going &
​I love you.
​

I miss you
​like an arm
​or leg
​or tooth:

Lost long ago,
but felt
like it was there.

​You can't
​see it
​or touch it
​(anymore);
​but (sometimes) it itches &
​hurts & takes up
​space (like it should).

All parts joined,
​we are one body.

​We were
(surely)
from before.

There are different 
worlds,
alongside this one,
where we are
joined
​(I'm sure).

​In
this world,

​we're not.

​That (sometimes) feels wrong.
​

4.

I breathe the wonderland wet air

and keep the evening smells captive;
​letting the jasmine waves
​wash me over and under
​the frangipani clouds;
opening
​& (en)closing(ly) rubbing
against me
​before they leave me behind
in their misty summer dreams

(Being outside at night
​was always a kind of magic to me).

​I move between

​(the softening bedclothes)
​next to the stardust paths,
​(absently nudging the bedlinen
into remembering frozen winds
​& flying in greasy seaside gales
​and celebrating Christmas pageant plays,
​trailing glitter dust)

I touch

​the soaking soft mosswalls
​of (my) labyrinth night-world(s);
​fingerprinting my life-years
​and scar-days
​onto their furry parchments
​for other night-walk(er)s
​and dream-travel(ler)s
​to find in a million years.

​Does anybody know the way
back to the frangipani trees?

​5. ...

What good is a heart like mine
in all this hardness?

​There is no place for soft things here.
​It doesn't fit in.
​I feel it not fitting in;
Being bigger than it should;
Showing around the edges
of my exoskeleton cladding:
betraying me.

I am too soft inside
for safety.
My heart is too black
for goodness.

​I am all softness and darkness
​inside & out.