
I am an eternal romantic, who believes in the possibilities of great loves. I fall for those who show me a great potential to love. I love the ones with dreamy black eyes, who share a glimpse of a warm, gentle soul. Those who show a vulnerability that is so now so rare.
I then lay my heart on a platter. I decorate it with hope and care. Like a lamb to the slaughter, a corpse getting ready to meet its maker, I bring it out in all its glory. I give it my all and then I give some more. Sooner rather than later I retrieve it, a little worse for wear. Used and abused, a little broken and a little loose, a little jaded and completely faded. The blood still pumping through its veins but the pace slow. It looks like a complete mess which I am sure it is.
I pick it up, I clean the traces of hopelessness. I gently clean the scars of shame. I polish it and fill it with light, I care for it and make it whole till it starts beating again. I hide it between the rib cage of my chest, I safeguard it with my life. I don’t let it fall or let it go. And it stays there quietly, beating away in a state of limbo forgetting all the love it holds in its palm-sized shape.
Days become weeks, weeks become months and months become years. And before I know it I am coaxing it out from its little dark cage to be decorated and laid out on a platter waiting for the cycle of destruction to begin. For someone has shown me hope and a possibility to love again.
