Because its proper use
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I will cut out my heart.
A picture of a thing is not
the thing, no; but it is a thing.
The eyes stare, the light surprises
from odd angles, eases into
soft, familiar, friendly lines.
In the evening, after work, almost
a smile. Almost a nod. Almost
ten minutes since the last time
it beat. That's a record. I can wait.
How long will it take? I should wait.
There is no prize for being good.
No prize for the sweet, hard alchemy
that made you laugh... no prize for finding
your smile at the bottom of a box of
"fuck fuck fuck my life"
down down down
way down again again so far, so far, so far
so good. The ribs the toughest part.
That noise, the *creak* before they snapped.
The worst? Over? I hold on for fear
of... of... of...
Healed. Your eyes, your smile, your scent
covered some dry, dead, wrinkled place
where sun and forest, fire and rain had never met.
Come together, magic in the dark corners...
games in the
night. Wired back up. Rags in the washer.
Blood collecting in the cup
you used for sweet, light coffee.
The map is not the territory.
The scars are not the wound.
But they are something.
Eyes open, chest silent. I daydream
I blog irregularly at TinkerX. I'm also on Twitter. @andyhavens, go figure.