I weave these ribbons between the hollows of my bones, sewing together the frayed flesh that you stripped bare in my pursuit of you. Replace my heart with a Cuckoo clock, and my mind with a mocking bird, then maybe I'll sleep during these fitful nights of uncertainty.
You came to me, pockets overflowing with tamarind pods, ripe figs, celery root and prickly pears, bravely holding me for thirty seconds "because that's how long it takes for the endorphins to be released." No one's held me that long before, and I could've fell to pieces in your arms because you felt so safe.
The darkness slipped inside me at the end of a knotted winter scarf slung over the dilapidated door of a hotel room. There swung the jerking feet of my hopes for faith, love, brotherhood and a well adjusted childhood. It took me decades to understand that you can't change the shifting hands of Fate, much less the accidental slip of the foot.
The sky is grey, pressing down on me, always pressing down into that hollow cavity where my heart should be. The muscle and sinew still there, of course, useful only to keep time. It does that well, at least, better than a Rolex.
The worst part is when I lie in bed at night, and I have to stop myself from thinking about a (our) future. I catch myself, then cross my wrists over my chest, like a corpse, to protect my heart.
There's a void at the center of my being. I don't mean my heart. I mean a pillar, as if God drilled out the core of me, Some glorified test tube surrounded by flesh. It's not comfortable, But I admit it's a good place to store baggage.
I take this dilapidated notebook everywhere, even the bathtub. I like to let the hot water open my pores, my mind, my heart. Between the furious scribbling I set it on my chest, waiting for the next verse. The weight of my words presses me deep into the basin, the gravity of 10,000 nights, and I'm thankful the water is shallow, so I don't succumb to the burden.
Time crawls during an episode, the days and nights extending before you; a vanishing horizon. You begin to take notice of little things; the exact rhythm of your heart, the way a water droplet holds light. But mostly I sit in the stillness of apathy, stagnate as everything around me grows and changes while I molder. It's happened enough times for me to know that it's all a matter of time before it passes. So I sit, and smoke, and drink black coffee and wait until the light returns.
Buried beneath the raw flesh of every scar there lies a story, a veiled truth manifested in the physical form. If you listen close enough they will whisper, confessing our sins, our triumphs, our follies and, even, our secrets.
Rumi was really onto something - writing poems about God, who for all we know could be a figment of our imagination, or a madness of spirit. The point is: when you love something intangible and invisible, it has no chance of ever breaking your heart.