I cut my heart out with a kitchen knife and threw it in the sea at high tide because it no longer served me.
I built a boat from driftwood to look for it, but it had sunk beneath the encroaching waves.
Early this morning, I walked the beach at low tide hoping to find it, sheathed in delicate green-brown seaweed
to gather it back and let it dry in the distant winter sun.
At dusk, I gathered it in a broken music box from my deceased grandmother and spoke to it all night in hushed tones because I could not remember the melody.
Come back, I didn’t mean to run the car in the garage. I just might need you.
The house has gone very quiet.
Ashamed, I dodge all the mirrors and turn back the clocks to a different day when somebody held me against starlight.
Nothing is forever except forever.
Laughter still may fill the colossal gap between y and z, the ending.
It’s time, finally, to sit with the ghosts of the house and tell them everything.
They are afraid for me.
It all became so difficult to breathe, to find things worth finding.
And then the Book was returned to me
the stones in my chest once again became pages.