XI

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

- E. E. Cummings

IX

It all will fall, fall right into place.

VIII

H E A R T   P T 3 .

There is love. But is it enough? To brighten the darkest dark… from a distance…  is it enough? To heal the deepest wound – bruise, cut, break, sore… without ever touching or seeing or knowing the full extent of injury. Is it enough? Love that doesn’t know what it is dealing with. Ignorant love. Love that loves anyway. Is it enough?

I’m telling you that it is. I have seen, felt, known. Tested and tried and I have found that it is.

But nothing of proof. Nothing concrete, nothing absolute.

There is nothing. But my words, and my love. 

VII

H E A R T   P T 2 .

How, then, do I let another into my darkest dark? If my heart is kept where no man can go, what about the one I wish to go there. What about the one who needs to see, and know, and feel, and hear, all that my heart is saying, yearning, yearning to say. When there is pain, where do I direct his healing hand? What tools do I advise him to use?

Nothing. There is nothing. Nothing but kindness. Nothing but patience. Nothing but sound endurance and overarching tenderness. Nothing but sweet words and silent whispers. Nothing concrete, nothing absolute, nothing remedial or sanitizing. Nothing one can give full trust to, or put full hope in. There is only some hope. Only as much trust as you can muster. 

VI

H E A R T .

What are the desires of my heart? Who can say, or number them, or locate them in anatomy. If my heart hurts where do you rub? What is its geography? If its grief: a little to the left, up one ventricle and down the other side. If its heartbreak: just that fissure down the very middle, could we patch that up? How does one search the hearts depths? A flashlight too bright and a candle too likely to burn. No valve would let you through to poke inside and find what you’re looking for. What do I want, what do I feel, how much and why… None of these can be dug out or wrestled into the open. No. The heart is not a mystery that can be explored. It is a mystery.