My heart is sore this morning
because it spent the night
despite my tired state
stretching to the edges
of everything it knows
seeking our sillage
like an old labrador
lost in the forest
without its companion
roaming like a compass
with no magnet
like a song
with no rhythm
there just isn’t sense
though all of mine seek it

Sometimes my poor heart
catches your scent
in a midday breeze and
despite my brain’s training
it always follows into that
twisted forest
between us where
it always returns
bruised and bigger
if only because
it learns to hold wider
the space
of the perforations
from what
and whom
it can’t find because
they don’t exist here
in the way that would make
the broken parts
beat again

My wild heart
can’t ever begin
to comprehend
the emptiness
what it means
and why
that vacancy exists
and it never will
so at night
despite what
the rest of me knows
it takes itself apart
to try and arrange
the pieces in
such a way
that they will
ever touch
yours again