be still, dear heart.

by saracrolick



I left a piece of my heart in New York City; the rest I carried home on my sleeve.

I left my song in a cab.

Noiseless noise from a digital seat back absorbed her (and I didn’t notice until today).

I left my language on a greyhound.

Two months passed before I knew how to paraphrase the truth.

I left my rightside up on a curbside, facedown.

Senselessness safe in my overnight bag.

Standing is sliding is moving is slipping. Stand still. Stand still.

Be still, dear heart.

I lost my voice inside grey October air; and somehow thought punching keys would be the same without it.

It wasn’t the same without it.

What I managed to bring home was a mosaic heart—with a hole where stained glass should be.

My typing fingers still type full of paper cuts.

Resting fingers on sharp edges of beating fragments; from that time I left my heart in New York City.

From home, I’ll look behind my oldest books and favorite vinyl.

Directions back to the city.

A number for the cab company.

How to solder glass where there is none.