Soft Tissue

The way I love
Has Yet to be reciprocated. 
My love language?
A dialect no one speaks.
My head's underwater.

No snorkels allowed.

I wade in a sea of 

My own ill-gotten tears. 

The pain?

Seemingly beyond my threshold.

Yet,

I still love the way I love.

I refuse to let my heart harden.

For there are few things in this life

Stronger than a docile heart. 

A heart that loves so easily.

Yet begs itself,

Pleads with itself,

Blood curdling cries

Highlighting the desire to take

That love BACK for itself. 

For it's beauty has been worn.

The substance of it laced with hurt.

It's unfair!

But it SO can be repaired. 

It's pliability makes it malleable.

Giving, The Potter, free reign 

To breathe life into me,

While my wounded heart lay in repair.

Spinning the clay-like organ

As I journey along

Protected. 

On a divine ventilator,

Waiting.

The vitality of my vessel spins

Between the loving hands of, The Truth.

Every indentation,

Every impression,

Made love to so sweetly,

So passionately!

On The Potter's wheel,

My heart is reaffirmed.

With the ever available, omnipresent

Wheel of repair, I'm reminded;

Due to the dangers of my purpose,

It was built to last.

And, I, made to love.