She

Hang in there, heavy heart. It'll all be over soon, this dreaded feeling that something heartbreaking will happen to you. It'll shatter you to pieces, not giving you the slightest chance to guard yourself, 'come what may', you say.

You invite the darkness that comes. You feel like its an old familiar friend. Ready to embrace you with all of its hurt that bears on the lengths of its fingers. 'hurt me', you say. Hurt me now and forever hold your peace. If only it was so easy as the church act of getting married.

The perpetual bliss of knowing that love consumes you. I'd rather have that. This is about the lack of a love that one receives. But she gives. The heart gives and gives and gives love until she is all dried up, hollow inside from all the love that she has given away. It's been mentioned that love never ends. The heart begs to differ. It does. And 'it hurts', you say again. It hurts.

An organ of a body that does so much, feel so much. It keeps you alive and so easily it could break your soul. 'Hold yourself steady there', you remind her time and again.

The heaviness will cease. You will feel light again and happiness will fill you up to the very brim until you cannot receive anymore.

The cycle continues. She comes back. And you find yourself saying, 'hurt me again'.

The heavy heart eludes you.