Some mornings, I wake with a broken heart.
Not a fractured heart of loss or lack of love. The cause cannot be dowsed. Such is the nature of this sickness I’ve had since my hypothalamus starting pumping sex into my cells. While this fracturing surprises me every time, the course and feel is natural, like a sneeze or the onset of a yawn or the tingle of a limb falling sleep.
And I like it. It reminds me of the old scars. Where the heart was healed from previous breaks. Like the gold joinery in a Japanese bowl. And in reminding I know my heart will heal and I can build new veins that run in a marriage of lightning and lattice. The jagged lines add beauty, a breathtaking thing only for me to cherish. Histories I can run my fingers over.
But a ghost looms there in the cracks. Steps toward the final shatter. For I have a confidence in the deeper parts of me that one break will be irreparable, the onset of my end.
But despite the terrible pain and dread I treasure those moments when the heart breaks with a precious reverence of holding a newborn. I never feel more alive. And I nurture those moments because I know this heightened seeing will fade once the gold is set. I've lost it so many times. The bowl becomes just a bowl. To eat rice out of or hold wax fruit. An unremarkable centerpiece in a rarely visited dining room.
Not a fractured heart of loss or lack of love. The cause cannot be dowsed. Such is the nature of this sickness I’ve had since my hypothalamus starting pumping sex into my cells. While this fracturing surprises me every time, the course and feel is natural, like a sneeze or the onset of a yawn or the tingle of a limb falling sleep.
And I like it. It reminds me of the old scars. Where the heart was healed from previous breaks. Like the gold joinery in a Japanese bowl. And in reminding I know my heart will heal and I can build new veins that run in a marriage of lightning and lattice. The jagged lines add beauty, a breathtaking thing only for me to cherish. Histories I can run my fingers over.
But a ghost looms there in the cracks. Steps toward the final shatter. For I have a confidence in the deeper parts of me that one break will be irreparable, the onset of my end.
But despite the terrible pain and dread I treasure those moments when the heart breaks with a precious reverence of holding a newborn. I never feel more alive. And I nurture those moments because I know this heightened seeing will fade once the gold is set. I've lost it so many times. The bowl becomes just a bowl. To eat rice out of or hold wax fruit. An unremarkable centerpiece in a rarely visited dining room.
Today's Haiku
Soft pink fingernails
On hands gripping a bus pole
I can see them grow
On hands gripping a bus pole
I can see them grow
Today's Workout
Racing home with groceries in the rain
Today's Drawing
(Based on the word Ostentatious from Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day)
***Check out the full catalog of pictures HERE***
(Based on the word Ostentatious from Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day)
***Check out the full catalog of pictures HERE***
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