At 33 minutes past every hour,
I feel the tree of my leftover love
dig its roots a little deeper into
the soil of my soul. I have ears
to help you solve your sorrows,
eyes to help you find the light,
hands to hold you on ice-cream
cold night, lips to make you
laugh or shut you up with a
kiss. Only you are missing.
This is what makes me bolt up in
bed at night, laden by the burden
of love escaping like air from
an over-pumped balloon. Soon,
my Jane Austen heart will slow
down, rusty to the spiritual stethoscope
that tests me once a year, just to
make sure that it hasn’t forgotten
how to beat. (Though I cheat, you
know. I try to keep it up to speed by
loving everything else I can think of.)
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wow. i mean, wow.
Thank you. I mean, thank you.