Pressure.

The heart is a simple muscle, bound by the vessels of which it pumps. There is no deep structure of the organ, for it only knows a rudimentary understanding of pressure and time.

This is the foundation of love, the feeling humans have come to know and associate with each other. The pressure of another being’s well being on the mind of ones own can drown even the most competent swimmer in the waters of the unknown. Lest there be problems, this pressure is feather, riding high and proud on the edge of a falcons wing, lazily circling in a carefree nature. Yet no true love comes without the weight.

The burden is carried equally among the sexes, distributed among the soup-line that is known as courtship. It is time, however, that determines the souls true connection. The passing of this phenomenon is mystical, misunderstood and unappreciated. It’s things like seeing a laugh or watching a sneeze that are the moments that should be cherished. It is always in hindsight that activities such as these, fragments of time, mere specs among the crooked line of life, that are missed.

Time spent with one who tugs at stings of your heart is time spent well, yet when that person tugs no more, the world seems damp and uninhabitable. Dark clouds circle, rain falls slow, and flesh tears easily to reveal the blood that was once warmed by the sight of them now dripping cold.

As always, time was the issue. Constantly in debt to the hourglass, breaking it all only to stoop like a fool trying to shovel the sands back into place.

Sliding and sifting through broken fingers, the pressure builds…