An Addicted Heart

An intervention of the heart

I checked my heart

into the rehab clinic

at a quarter past two

on a rainy Monday

last June.

I stood in line

for nearly three hours

with the other

miscreants

waiting for a tow.

Ahead of me

was a woman 

who sold her soul

before forgiveness 

got away.

Behind me

was a man

he held his liver

in his bloody hands

dripping on the tiles.

We swapped stories

while we bit our nails

jones for a smoke

confessed our sins

through lying teeth.

I went home

empty-hearted

feeling less of a man

crawling into dirty sheets

spent.

My hand over

the missing part

for months

with that feeling

of deja vous.

I got the call

to pick up my heart

at about ten a.m.

on a sunny Tuesday

in September.

I took a taxi home

light-hearted

falling in love,

suffice-to-say, now

I believe in rehab.