The Hopeful Heart

Standing at the water’s edge

You were here with me so long ago.

Now I can only see you when my eyes are closed.

Rain breaks through the steely surface

And smoke leaves your mouth.

It was your third that day, when you looked at me

and said, “Where else can we go?”

We stole a few seconds to ourselves that day

and you seemed so content when we had to say goodbye.

If I could have held your hand for a lifetime,

I would have.

On top of an abandoned table rests a crane,

made of folded coffee receipts

and pieces of napkins ripped into

the shapes of countries litter the floor

where we first learned the

secret songs of each others spirit.

If our story carries on across the oceans,

will it be told as hearts on fire torn apart by time,

or as the synthesis of souls folding together?

You have been through much before,

I see it in the way your eyes won’t meet mine.

In a dirt-floored room I was struck

for the first time with a question.

Am I a puzzle piece kept separate until it is time to play my part

in your larger picture?

Or did we meet so we could learn together

that none of us have our own square stories,

and none of us are truly waiting for a single missing piece?

Sometimes I dream about the music you could have made.

It’s as beautiful as you are when I close my eyes

and feel the hand you pulled away

holding mine, unafraid and content at last.

Wouldn’t that memory have been sweeter than a love

kept secret and played out in quick glances up from the ground?

I collected the shredded pieces of my heart

and taped them back together one night,

so we could learn to love,

complete and whole.

But the next day you kissed me,

goodbye.

All I was left with were the edges you touched,

and a feeling that even if our pieces don’t fit perfectly

we could at least fold together

into something beautiful and new to us both.