At the end
of my sleeve
was a heart,
beating and
swollen with
enduring
love. So
large it was, that
it made my
fingers fumble
as they
tried to hold on.
The heart at
the end of my
sleeve is
smaller now,
the
passionate blood now
trickling
easily through
steady
fingers. Slick and cold,
easy to
avoid.
The once
loud throbbing,
deafening,
beating that drowned
out the
sounds of the world as I
gazed at her
with mysterious wonder
is now sadly
silent. The sound of it,
so
diminished.
In my summer
short sleeves
you might
never have known
the size of
the heart that once
dominated
long sleeved wrists,
you might
catch a glance of what
used to be,
but it’s unlikely.
When I
scratch my arm, and feel the
phantom soft
spot where my heart beat so bold,
I feel its
loss, and the raised scar where
the skin
once burned with loving
passion and
that special something only
intimate
lovers know.
A heart on
the end of a sleeve,
it’s a poor
place for it. Yet I want it
to be as
full as it once was, getting in the
way, as I
fumble again to impress her heart,
that she
wears on her sleeve, fumbling toward
mine.
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