Such Is the Way of the Heart So Human

Two Hearts (beat as one) | by Franci Van der vyver

A man may be stone deaf but
still can listen with his heart.
A woman may suffer a heart broken,
again and again, but seldom
loses her blessed capacity to love.
A man’s heart may appear
indifferent to the feelings
a woman may enjoy, lament,
or even misunderstand, but,
if he ignores them, then
he misses completeness as a man.
A woman may watch him stand
in his brooding way, yet never see
his silent struggle to parse
the language of her feelings,
but misinterprets this to her detriment.
And a man in his silent world
might never fathom the true depths
of emotion a woman can suffer.
He can only hope she might one day
turn her face toward him. Only then
might he read upon her lips
what she would share
of the joys and despair
she tends within her broken vessel.
Such is the way of the heart so human.
Perhaps one day two of these hearts,
each bearing the scars of their
unbridled rides and unbroken falls,
might discover a man can love her
without being a lover, and how
a woman’s emotions, deep as seven oceans,
vast as a clear night on the prairie,
can forgive almost anything.
Just never forget.

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Obsessive Compulsive Disturbed

 

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Are these obsessions
that I dive into one
after another? Or are they
compulsions that continually
steal myself from me?
The know-it-all said obsessions
are intrusive, irrational,
recurrent thoughts or images
that won’t go away, like
the sleepless dreams
of all of you I dream
here in the dark.
Compulsions, it seems,
are recurring actions that
I may develop attempting to
relieve myself from my obsessions.
That’s just disturbing,
I told the keys,
especially “I”  “y” “o” and “u,”
to whom I confess daily
my fears of obsessing over
one of you again —
always in one hundred words.

And Sometimes How

The season must’ve changed because
there you are again.
Every time I feel that first burst
of the What, When and Where
of climatic change,
I know the Why of your Who
will blow full
my thoughtful sails today.
Is it my first sensing
of those lacy spring blossoms’
perfume,
or the panting earthy exhalations
of autumn’s leaves?
Is it the heady summer sweat
that chills me,
or the icy bite of winter
that flashes warm through my body?
Are they reminding me of those
foolish feelings and misdirected dreams?
Those are rhetorical questions, actually.
I don’t need answers because
tomorrow it just won’t matter.
And I’ve long since sailed past
the self-inflicted How of it all
anyway.

A new free-write from the past-informed fiction side of my head. And maybe my once-romantic reporter’s soul.