My Insomniac Heart

By Sid

To have her hand rest upon my heart, I'm home, so close to her heart. I know better now than to place it in the cupped hands of another.

Eventually, hands too get cold feet and drop it for shards.

Jarred pieces glued on like modern art.

Her hand rests upon my chest, caressing it, an abandoned dog.

Healing hands wasted on the ungrateful, beating the name of the lover past. Nestling in chambers of abashment, self-inflicted or perhaps remnants of Stockholm, still conflicted.

Whispered realizations screaming, labeling me a perfidious lover.

Covering my musk with hints and tones of chastity, I grapple to eviscerate all that was touched and felt by the hands of the ex.

My mind ramified, my thoughts hijacked.

Guilt-ridden attempts to clear the smog.

The hands of a woman beckon me still, evincing a return to the promised land. Burnt hearts watering each other now, thriving flora on the ashes.

Ashes once roared onto our faces.

A woman, stronger than I, my failures and unsaid goodbyes.

Delicate hands that caress flowers and unruly, pathetic hearts of men. Oh to have her hand rest upon my chest, I breathe colors now, this bleached-out soul.

By Sid