Truth be told.

February 6th, 2017

My heart is a writer.
It is not a fighter.
(Except when it was fighting for you).
It is soft.
(Only for you).
It is stubborn,
doesn't wait for me to count to three.
It falls without a parachute.
It doesn't tap out,
does not look for an emergency way out.
And, I watch.
Watch with my senses.
Wait for the crash.
I watch,
in awe, in envy, in respect.
How could it move with such decision.
How could it move with such weight on its back, holding it back.
I watch with resistance,
See the pieces shedding through the cracks.
And I watch my heart disappear,
not holding it back.

I will not claim my heart.
I will not search for it.
I do not own it.
it does not belong to me.
It has found its home,
and it is not with me.

We are both better off.