Conversations with a Human Heart.

Tag: lub and dub

what love is.

love is

love is the thing that keeps us safe. it’s the thing we remember the longest and feel the deepest and try the hardest for.

love keeps us spinning—a revolving top at the eye of calm and joy and fear and grief and ecstasy.

it’s grit and velvet.

love is recalling a first touch with every touch. it’s releasing the torments—lies we’ve fed ourselves and wounds we’ve endured at the hands of others—because we know the promise of more exists within us and around us, an electric static in the ether.

it’s trying when you’ve got less than nothing left.

love is celebrating the inhale with a gracious exhale. it’s stillness wrapped in overload and falling as we rise.

love is evolution; a good-intentioned revolt against a self who hasn’t lived.

love is a ceremonious risk of hearts and bodies in a world that sometimes forgets to nurture. it’s a gamble between the comfort of existing in the safety of what is—with all its intricate inadequacies—and what might be.

love is imperfect words melding with mismatched tempos for a song indescribably pure. it’s the explosion of time contained in a single kiss; the recollection of a moment you call home.

artwork: “danced out of existence” by vanitylife

 

this post was grown on the gram 

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bury me with the lilacs.

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I had an angel wing surgically removed last week, the burden of one thousand lifetimes extracted with it. feathers plucked, one by one hundred, two by two thousand, three by angry fistful—blood, flesh, and soft memory encrusted.

it rests between a lilac bush and the house of my former self—where insects and swallows make use of the remains.

unceremoniously I watch these little pieces of me vanish to an existence of usefulness I could never afford them. the vestiges of a former life built into new things, pretty things, the composted soul, renewed.
this post was grown on the gram

billie & me.

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billie understands the way you should organize a bookshelf when the sun’s left his post. the way crickets should punctuate the crackle of vinyl. the way humidity should resurface the skin—a mustache of moist, a free feeling of funk. the way a stemless glass should rock—so sweetly in the palm, so gently near the tongue. the way darkness should saturate the windows, the way tomorrow should be made to wait.

because tonight is for me. and it’s for billie.

it’s about the sway of two strangers who’ve quite forgotten which decades they’re supposed to call home.

this post was grown on the gram

bottle of red.

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the neighborhood shifts with a man, tested, as his partner wades her way through moments of celestial bargaining—the should-haves stacking higher than a breathing malbec, higher than a set of strong shoulders, higher than the lofty ideas being sent to mother moon.

tonight she witnessed the rough edges of just-one-of-those-days pierce the tender flesh of lovers’ hearts—a thunderclap of the universe’s most spine-strengthening temperatures.

this post was grown on the gram

the preacher man.

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on a Tuesday I woke to a preacher preaching.

he dipped figure eights inches from a hazel gaze—spreading the good word of salvation.

I felt myself transform that morning—the womb keeper of sacred secret things. and I carried his gospel through weeks of quiet ritual, days upon days of bible thumping. and the truth, it would set me free.

I saw signs like diamonds break through the grey shades of my deepest fears. I listened as blessed truths sweetened the breath of the daily hum.

but on a Sunday the crimson came; wiping clean the pages of well-intentioned prayers. the preacher man is dead, and the good word’s gone with him.

this post was grown on the gram

mercury, you saucy bastard.

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mercury and I are friends again. we’ve buried another bloodied hatchet, rank with the death of yesterday’s order. encrusted with the spoils of another silent war. times will arise when we must bow to the might of otherworldly tempers, to the foxing of forces insistent on out-foxing.
it all happened so fast, the dissolving, bending, breaking me—try to keep up, child, you know I cannot wait.
so I took my licks like I take my coffee, unadulterated and strong. I folded to a wiser man, the street smart king of wicked games. white flag, you saucy bastard.
the cleverest move I had up these too-stretched sleeves was inward, to a place of wait. home base. safety. fled. we’re not weak in these moments, as cutting loses can free hearts of buried bruises; and time away from a battle field can restore shards of hope—to be reinserted in the privacy of home. stay low, sweet warrior.
because after the reconnaissance I emerged the humbled one, and my foe took note and put down his sword. the hard work of wisdom-bestowing finally done.
artwork: street art news

—this post was grown on the gram

gather your broken hearts.

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sometimes I wish I could gather all the misshapen little pieces of all the broken hearts of the world.


I’d collect them with a dust pan and hand brush, whispering words like “there, there” and “don’t worry about a thing” before letting them slide to a free fall with a tinkle-tinkle-tinkle to the bottom of a velvet-lined pouch.


I’d walk those pieces home while humming bob marley’s greatest hits, and when I arrived at my doorstep I’d promise those little pieces that miracles—the likes of which they’d never believe—were to take place tonight.


steady hands would guide their fall to an altar, pieces of my steadily singing heart set out, waiting to receive them.


with ginger swishes of painted fingernails, I’d stir and heap the pile—a tiny mountain of good intentions and banished dreams.
I’d cry songs of forgiveness for all the fragments holding tight to broken promises, I’d cry songs of hope for all the shards missing their once-familiar prayers, I’d cry songs of redemption for all the slivers tarnished with the residue of shame.
and for the ones who now knew only the wretched pain of long lost love, I’d let them wail, and I’d wail too, until every last cinder ceased to rage.


under the watchful eyes of this restless soul and her loyal moon above, I’d wait. for hours, for days, for relentless weeks, until the hurt made its way past mournful curves and angry edges, settling at last for good. only then would I exhale the tender breath I had stored safely away in the pit of my belly, freeing the pain from every last crevice. “your work here is done,” I’d whisper to wandering ashes. “this is where we say goodbye.” I’d watch with unbearable anticipation as the pieces, wrought with a lightness they’d all but forgotten, softened into one another, reclaiming their space in this world.


and when I was certain the moment had finally arrived, I’d lift the now-beating mass to the heavens, transformed to a wholeness, a new heart for growing beautiful things. a new love just begun.


artwork: collete saint yves

—this post was grown on the gram