Thursday, July 14, 2016

The Hand-Held Heart

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

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