At the Burial

 

My heart races. Compounded. Pulse in my chest.

 

What is in my veins, trembles, minute quakes, 

Heart shakes, a reverberation. 

Mind...

  On the easier primes

    Surrendering the impossible ones...

It is no surprise to me, 

 That which rises; 

     not anymore. 

It doesn't matter where he is

  or what he is doing-

It's not bad; 

He's just not here.  Even when he is. 

As I had unlatched the gate- his control mechanism...

perhaps it fell that he loved me less...

Or that I could not be contained? 

Perhaps he would hold on tighter, 

  afraid it meant I would go away? 

But every chance I have lended, 

He somehow flouts, 

Wondering why my passions 

Will suddenly have him snarling...

Having to quickly snuff them out. 

They are simple asks...

  Simple amends...

But unseen. Unreconciled. Without recognition, 

  and unabridged...

So I had buried my heart in the back yard. 

Given it a funeral fit for children... 

Kid-Size shoebox, 

  Meak, 

Covered darkly in dirt, 

  and meager wild flowers 

     from the lawn. 

It would go unnoticed 

 that anything had changed, 

Though no light did dawn.

If he did, perhaps still, 

  he would shy such a knowledge away...

As sometimes I think it is more important that he keeps me, 

My heart now covered 

  to the light of day, 

Smothered up for rot 

As He has cloaked to its decay. 

And for what would it matter? 

  Because the possession doesn't fade. 

He will keep me to love him, 

Even with no heart in its place.