Heart Peices

My dearest,
I hope so much that we may talk for one brief moment today. I did not sleep last night, but stayed awake all night, reading your letters. Over and over. The largest smile fell across my face, as if it were a guided missile, falling towards it’s target, and landing perfectly. I hope that the same fate befalls you. My heart was found this morning, littered across my floor. In shards. Yet as I remembered your face and put it back together, it did not cut me once. Rather fell into place, as if nothing had occurred. We have been brought to a point of perfection. To the extreme that I wonder if some of the heart pieces were not mine, but your own. For when I placed it back together, it seemed larger, and more full than before. There are times I had looked at my heart, and as viewing it, felt that it was misshapen. At times it seemed to hold too little. Like a sealed jar of water, slowly evaporating. And at other times it would press outward, reforming, and reshaping itself again, because it was far too filled. Now it seems it has grown and holds the perfect amount. It has become a ‘home’ to me, in so many words. I will hold it inside of my left hand pocket, and remove it to be viewed only on special occasions. Your picture is worn around the edges. It is only a tiny print off of you, half hiding from the camera. Holding your soul inside, so that it will be waiting for me. So that when I take your hand inside of mine, the two will merge and these hard pieces shall lock in place, and beat in perfect time. The picture has slowly torn at the corners, and the paper is crumpled. Yet it remains perfect. Frame or no. It is framed itself by a glow from your eyes. Even in black and white those colors create their own spectrum. They seem to create their own sound as well. The kind that vibrates off of my bedroom walls, even though you are, in no way, large or small, nearby. They are wide with surprise, and perfectly shaped. Your eyelashes curl at an angle that makes them seem almost fake, yet far too angelic. Your lips seem to blister, with an unrequited kiss. And so I press mine upon them, tasting whatever flavor may linger there. Be it a morning cup of coffee or the ashy taste of cigarettes or the bitter sweet of cherries, I will never mind. Although I could never see you holding your coffee mug perfectly crisp in the morning, and a breath full of smoke would never cross your perfect face. And that bittersweet of cherries is implied. Even when you’ve eaten nothing for days. Your fingers curl in mine at night, even though you are not here to hold my hand. And I feel them clasp my hand, when you twitch during a nightmare. I lie awake last night wishing you were real. And I count the times I’ve wanted to say what you should know by now. This morning I crawled out of my bed, not even a blink had passed my eyes the whole night through. I turned on some music, which I’m sure would aggravate you if you were still in bed, and you would mutter to me “turn off the music baby, it’s too early.” I of course would just grin and dance about the room listening to the music as I get ready. You will have already fallen asleep. Not really minding the music. My day would pass only as it has. With my every thought being of you, or locked upon such a subject at the least. I would still smile when I walked into the back room and smelled the coffee. I would make myself a cup. I did. As usual, filled to the top line, eleven packets of creamer, and five of sugar. Today I added another pack of creamer, which cause my morning coffee to taste bitter. It made the heart pieces tingle. It was warm and bitter. Which is sometimes just how I feel. Everything is breathtaking, and a walk in the park would be very nice, but I just don’t have the time for that now. Mostly because I refuse to go without you. But there are still nights that I sneak out of my house. I head down the alley and walk to my park. I sit myself in the top of the slide, and lie there listening to music that you can never hear. I remember that my coffee this morning tasted like your kiss. But how would I know really. The taste is all too familiar. Your kiss is like bitter coffee. And there is nothing I would rather have every morning.