Bittersweet Keepsake

You are unlocking my doors, Peeling the skin from my chest digging deep to discover my pulsing heart. And it’s beating with a fervor. Lust in my eyes, glittering in the lowlight. A mirror of past mistakes. oh, it’s an ache in my fingers, a sigh in my belly. We exchange hearts, oh: I might say the feel of a brand new one (thumping behind my left breast) is strangely bittersweet. It’s yours, you know, hidden beneath muscles and tendons and flesh, atoms and palpable, bitter melodies. And when I set my hand to feel my familiar rhythm, It’s your skin beneath the plum of my fingers. I pluck them away, like tiny birds chittering. At night I’ll dissolve, surrendering to hard alcohol, dreams, headaches, regret. But you will faithfully stay, a keeper of hearts, guarding their thick pounding on the bed. My shell has escaped. It will fly up-up-up—like a cheap helium balloon and burst on low-hanging clouds and sleet. Baby, my sweet daughter, sweet small flesh in my arms, I cannot keep you for much longer. You’re a keepsake, you know. I didn’t love you, you know, Until I met you. But we’ve stolen each other’s hearts and we’ll never get them back.