For the most part, he kept his heart in a zip lock bag. That way less people would ask him if he had one. A question he grew tired of. Course he had one. Silly question.
It was like asking the sky if it was blue. Yes, sometimes it looked grey, but even the sky got tired of being the same colour.
He would leave it sat next to him when eating his lunch at the local park.
The pigeons would bob their head and move in closer, thinking if they lingered for long enough, they'd get a piec; his heart an escaped crumb from a loveless granary loaf.
They didn't know any better.
Neither did the children who would stare as they were dragged past by their mother's hand. 'Anyone told you it was rude to stare' I'd think to myself. It was no use however, Children were curious beings. They probably wondered why I was feeding my heart to the pigeons, the pigeons wondered why I wasn't.
Regardless, it sagged over on itself looking disgruntled.
I should have probably written my name on it, across one of the semi translucent white lines, just incase I did ever misplace it.
How long could I go without it? There are lots of people wanting a replacement these day. Suppose I never got it back, that wouldn't be ideal.
What if the sky never turned blue again? Would the birds refuse to sing? One thing for sure is that the pigeons would still be hungry.
I hadn't seen a smile like that before,
Not round these parts,
It felt like something familiar.
What's worse was I never saw it again.
I never felt it again.
Not in that way at least.
It didn't bother me though,
At least I knew that feeling was out there somewhere on this earth.
Like how you can see the moon,
but will never experience it up close.
Appreciating how it makes the dark
slightly less scary
but will never get a chance to truly say thank you.
That was her smile,
A memory I would reflect on
whilst walking the streets,
whilst in the shower,
whilst carrying out the mundane tasks of life.
That's when I remembered.
That's why I'm glad,
I saw her smile.
Even if it was just that one time.
What does love sound like?
He asked
Recalling a series of smiles
and intense
eye contact
that would often
beckon back and
forth
between
the two.
They’d sit there for hours
letting the shadow move across
the raggedy carpet
that clearly needing changing
but was clinging on for dear life.
So often love didn’t
Sound like anything.
Perhaps the gentle breeze
or the distant conversations
from passers-by
as they rested their heads on
each others shoulders.
A comfortable silence,
One which allowed them to observe the world together
without saying a word.
It was a chance to let their
Mouths rest
Whilst their bodies
constantly communicated
feelings of
that were too complicated
to describe,
those feelings would
hang there,
suspended like drawings
in an art gallery
conveying so much
in the confined space
of the frame.
As they sat there
taking in the view of the city
they were,
for a moment or two
belonging to the beautiful
landscape
themselves.
If only someone had
recognised the painting
they were living out,
things may have stayed the same.
An extended hand So small Yet ready to grow Eagerly awaiting another to join To fill it’s clasp with another Warm and loving Full of age and wisdom Lessons for future situations Wanting what’s best for Those five fingers and palm Suspended in the air. As times gone by That hand has felt Numerous other things And feelings Interlocking fingers with your first love Tying your hair back for another day at school Holding that lipstick your mother Told you you were too young for Holding the pen you used to write in Your diary A collection of hand movements Ordered by the mind. And now it lays their Still in motion As you fall asleep Centimeters away from A hold you adore A hold that makes your feel safe And lets you forget the edges of your vision For what seems like a forever That once new soft hand Rugged with memories of Pain and love Lust and loss That hand once again extended Knowing the world And the person It hopes to join.
wear shoes, write poems 