If my heart was more than a heart, it would give you a call and pump out all of the words I keep trapped behind my teeth.
If my heart was more than a heart, it would burst out of my chest, throwing itself at your feet, screaming “take me, I am yours.”
My feeble heart, slamming its fists against my ribcage, demanding to be free of the bony barricade.
My incessant heart will not shut up about you. It does not know how. It beats out your name as if it knows nothing else.
When my heart woke up this morning, it wished you were still laying next to me, impatiently waiting for you to reenter the room. You, disappointed I had woken before you could throw your underwear in my face. Me, laughing until my eyes took notice of you, standing before me in only those boxer briefs, freshly cleaned skin gleaming in the natural light that pours so fluidly into your window. My body, longing to wrap itself around yours again. My heart, damn proud to use the word again with such certainty.
When my heart recalled the history behind the borrowed t-shirt wrapped around it as I left, it smiled with the glee of a school girl. I knew better than to divulge the details. You hate the way I remember everything. My heart wants you to know it’s the same shirt you wore that first afternoon we spent together, aimlessly wandering the city.
My distracted heart writes poems for you in business class.
My masochistic heart gets off on making playlists of the songs that reminds it of you and is rewarded three hours later with texts that read “Just got home, found myself thinking of you” and “Do we see eachother tonight?”
Oh my heart, the pathetic hopeless romantic, wants to get day drunk in the park and fuck you in the tube slide. Who will scream louder in ecstasy, us or the playground kids?
My fatigued heart is having trouble circulating blood today. The slow and steady pumping pounds against my chest, but regardless of the amount of pressure, it just can’t get the job done. It deprives my brain of oxygen.
My fucking heart, a paranoid schizophrenic hollow mass of blood, develops an arrhythmia every time someone else mentions your name. I’m haunted by hallucinations of the day my tongue snaps and asks exactly what’s going on between us. It writes speeches that would make a politician cry with jealousy; the convincing delivery is almost enough to trick me.
My forgotten heart hasn’t heard from you in four days. I wonder what you’re doing, but can’t bring myself to ask. Your phony attempts at giving attention are transparent and thin and only result in increased aggravation. I hate you most days, but dream at night of your soft fingertips, strong hips, sure lips, all pressing against me in just the right places. I need to hear you say it. I need to hear the words fall carelessly out of your mouth, words detailing all the ways you don’t care about me or my useless, needy heart.
Last week, heart to heart, standing in the doorway before I turned to leave, you kissed me goodbye. It took far too long to realize that it might be the last time.”