What ever could be more damaging than opening my heart to an idea, an entity that would soon leave me. If I fell in love with a person, a feeling or a bond- what then could be saved of my heart. An organ beating fierce like a fist, seizing with passion at the mere sight of such a thing. Too large, with pressing urgency- take a breath. Even the discomfort of its sting has all the sweet, unencumbered resonance of a kiss to me.
To hold a child or is it holding me. I am at first set with panic, only through detachment do I concede to this. To personalize would be most damaging. I think, half present- alternative histories yet to unfold. As any of us could be so many things, feel so varied a motion- I stand, carried in the current of my own detachments. The subtleties of their admission, the delicate threads weaving- they join. Entanglements hold me. My ornate desires an art, a craft once used to cheer sorrows hold the tale of a wanton spirit. Acceptance with fond intention is but a prelude to so many things.
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