Where Broken Hearts Congregate: Part 2

where the wind tears through the thickest coats as we huddle in awkward clumps, side by side, for warmth. praying the show will start so we can go. peer into the horizon, gobbled up by the explosion of lights. sanctioned dynamite, the cold, and pretty dyes are all that separate us from a war zone in Aleppo.

where we gaze at the skies, waiting.

for them to come back. to reach down out of the full looming moon and grab your hand. and skoo dee whoop, scat, skip, and shimmy across constellations. to throw in a twirl or two so that your yellow dress whirls in the approaching star’s gleam.

where mouths stiffen instead of commence kissing

is there such thing as a new beginning? it is started by definition, therefore it was new. once lived, if uncaptured, its never reclaimed. remade. re-hymenated.

wherein that sliver of sour before one cries at another’s pain. before the shouting is deafening. before the thunder of fireworks bashing an eardrum. before we fade into the blankets of night, trying to regain life and limb in the warmth. 

where the before exists

and hearts heal

and the broken

no longer congregate

 

Come, Time

Come,

time to put away childish things

emotions strewn about the floor

pick em up

shove em into your toy chest

let them rest away

where those who won’t break them

will scoop them up to play

by A. Long

To Ophelia

Doubt thou the stars are fire,
  Doubt that the sun doth move,
  Doubt truth to be a liar,
  But never doubt I love.
 O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers. I have not art to reckon my groans, but that I love thee best, oh, most best, believe it. Adieu.
  Thine evermore, most dear lady,
  whilst this machine is to him,
    Hamlet.
–William Shakespeare