Her Heart

piece of my heart

piece of my heart

It’s her heart that’ll get you.
It is a soft heart, warm heart,
hard heart, cold heart.
It’s a caged heart,
a free-flying heart,
a heart of flesh
that rests in her chest
and pumps the blood a’simmmer
that warms her touch
upon your skin, setting
your own heart ablaze.
It’s a heart made of thoughts
and emotions, with tiny
bricks of empathy and anger.
Her heart is covered
with notches for each
of her loves and a
near-matching number of scars
for all the times they broke it.
Yes, her heart gets you
in so many ways you don’t know
where to look, except maybe
within your own, where you’ll
know it by her flaming-arrow glow.
That’s because her aim isn’t only
to be so sure,but always
to be true.

Written in bed over the last 15 minutes before lights-out. I used to think of this as my creative hour, as I would lie there, waiting for sleep to come in sand tuck me in. In the near-sleep, with its breath and breath,  ideas and images fly into my pillow-framed head, where they’ll roost for the night and fly off by morning. That is, unless I catch ’em first and hold them for you until dawn.

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