No Worries

My heart, I've worn you down. My heart, I've left you carelessly around in many rooms: San Francisco, Toronto, Glasgow, New York. My heart, I forget you know well this tune -- again at a close.

Let me issue an apologetic applause. I'm sorry for using you as a telephone, a method to connect.

They have said, when confronted with my wants, only for night one, it left them weird -- which is to say, I leave them uneasy just by being.  Because I didn't tell them my wants, because to them I haven't a clue.

Now what am I to do?  I haven't a need to flee but want to, from my heart, now tangled in soiled sheets. Because what I aim is far from sharing a bed with one who can't bare to share a dinner table, which is where we scrabble only an hour later. My mother would call this a date inside-out.  My father would pulse with stress and doubt if he only knew the matters of my yellowed heart.

Because it's not weird, though, it's clearly not right, I say on our post-coital last date. Because I don't think it insane that forever start with one night.  It's inevitable fact.  It's fucked and my heart, I'm sorry I put you positions beheld uncanny.  That I open you up and pour into some dude. Tell you no worries, that this is just our new stew -- half mixed with a strangers, but no worries, he's nice arms and a trusted voice.  No worries, this is the one. Yes, again.  But no worries.  Just pump in rhythms enthusiastic.  So that his heart might fall in rhythm with ours and we might find some rhythm anew.

And my heart just goes along with this naivety.  Because my heart is as loyal as an elder dog and I don't want to do this again, but my heart, it is as thick as a Vegas fog.

And I understand that I'm likely losing the reader, you. But let me state: my heart is post-genuine, like a photo taken of the self, arms outstretched, grin askew, no need to admit the camp of what I do.  

And my heart is a piece of food, too large to feed even the hungriest of the population before it spoils and goes to waste.  There is a transient nature to it's texture, it's taste.

My heart, where I keep ideas that have passed before spoken, who copes as a sort of art.  It's a quite performance, it's got many a stop, many a start.

And my mind, despite all it knows, still manages to see the possibility of love in handsomeness and my heart is growing less convinced.  But my mind thinks it may well have found a connection to the tailor of a suit, the trim of the hair, the thickness of a beard, with a future to be built.  A farm for two, and a studio for one where I go to make work of you. Together at night we'll drink soup that you've stewed and we'll laugh quietly and inhale the night as two, hands held, love true.

There goes my heart again, less convinced, sewn into untidy furrows, seeded into some story of two. I do, I do, I do.  It pumps and pulses.  I do, I do, I do.  My heart, an eggplant heavy on the vine, sure to pull itself loose.