She has my heart. She stole it. I gave it away. Will she ever give it back?
She's hiding it in a Harlem flat. She's climbing with it in Spain. She's hauling it in her ski patrol jacket. Lo tiene en Buenos Aires, na chapada diamantina, and in Minturn. She has it when she's riding that bike, or when she's teaching that dance class, or when she makes those turns in borrowed gear.
She's had it now for so many years, and I wonder if she even knows she still has it.
I just met her last night, and already she holds a cord.
I don't even know her name, but the way she looked at me in the starlight made me throw it all away.
From time to time, place to place, I scratch my head and wonder if I even still exist. Because if you break something in half enough times, it just disappears. She took a piece and hid it up in her red hair, behind her black eyes, in blond curls, in those caramel hands. How can I ask for it back? I think I might need it back someday. Get back JoJo.
"How many hearts do you have?" my friend asked.
"Infinite," I lied.
2 comments:
My heart has more rooms than a whorehouse.
I once had a feeling while flying back from New York City. I looked out the window of the plane. It was night. Probably somewhere over Ohio, the great bellwether of our nation, I saw the city lights and rural lights below. I was consumed with an immense nervous weight. How many people are out there to love? How can I find them? Spend time with them? Get to know them? Experience their love? Sure maybe before I go looking to every light below, I should start figuring out how to do a better job of expressing love to those around me now. But the questions hit me hard. Is this the worry that drives one to travel the world, to brave the empty promises of booze coaxed taverns, to acquire material wealth as bait? You either gotta go out and find it or you gotta get it to come to ya! So quick, kill yourself getting it or lose yourself looking – both lonely roads to companionship, no?
cycor
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