Heart

Deart heart,
You are my collection of dreams. My bits of desire. The longing in my core. I wonder as you claw out of me with a primal carnal hunger where it is you'd rather be. Who you pound out reaching for, how long until you settle back into me: your rightful place. I become your home and I wonder if my ribs, your soundproof walls, are sturdy enough to contain you. You, dear heart, pounding steady in tune with the boys and girls of our dreams, pour out onto the dancefloor, the echoing halls of the library, into the shower drain, looking for more than me. I feel like an inadequate encasement. Even the city feels too small for you. On the rush hour train you beat into strangers, lulling them on beat with the stop and go of the overfilled train, reminding them of the smallness of their selves. Heart, you love big and ache deep and sometimes I think you forget who we are. I feel you sifting through the east river, the hudson, the harlem, the atlantic ocean, atlantic avenue, fulton street, the 52 bus, my journals, my platelets, for a sense of newness, a complex and often fabricated me-ness or you-ness. You, my heart, sitting on bodega shelves, spinning in 50s washing machines on halsey street, doing pull-ups on the scaffolding on my corner, sitting on the stoop waiting for one love or another to arrive. You are the mundane ferocity of my day to day. You are the one who jumps with the amazement of turning leaves or passing seconds, or downpours that remind you of your own smallness. And you overwhelm me.