She avoids heartache at all costs. She shelters all she has to offer behind rock walls of humor and craggy sarcasm. She wants to tear the beating thing from out her chest and throw it out the window, perhaps to see if it will fly. She knows it won’t though. It would just fall to the ground with a thud, food for the scavengers. So she leaves it in her chest, beating, like a metronome without a song to keep time for.
A cold metallic gray cloud hovers over the love she would like to share. It rains and storms. Thunder claps and the wind blows turbulently, stirring the cold air into swirling twisters of confusion. Up is down, left is right, every dimension is affected by the unknown weather of her heart. It beats loudly in her ears drowning the rational and soundness of the real love she knows is somewhere inside.
There is so much she wants to give and share and be revealed about her. She won’t though. The risk to her wild heart is too great and she’s too afraid she’ll like it. She’d like the release of someone with an umbrella to cover her heart from the rains, someone with a shield to protect her heart from the arrows of dishonesty and disloyalty. She longs for warmth in her heart provided by the heat of another’s passion for her.
But she mistrusts. She worries. She cowers. She fears that while worthy of love, no one is worthy to know hers. She doesn’t believe there are arms strong enough to hold her or eyes that can see the humor in hers. She sails onward on the stormy seas of her pulse. She lashes herself to the mast in the rollicking seas of her oceanic emotions to keep from going overboard, yet trapped to the very vessel that batters her.
She knows the power of her passions yet she is reluctant to unleash them. It has become safe under the cloudiness and it’s hard to see anything through the pounding rain. Her stomach gets upset, she’s nauseous from the seas, but she can’t stop. She is in her present and only wishes to deal with the present. There’s no land ready for her and she’s not ready for land. Even though lighthouses dot the way and fog horns blare through the night, calling for her to step ashore and let the sun thought the grayness.
Her aloof heart, so willing to love, beating with present passions hidden under a soft body and bright eyes. There’s a fire inside. I just can’t seem to see if from the shore. It’s a gray business she attends to, blocking it from, me, my eyes that wish to see.