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The Heart Wants What the Heart Wants
There comes steam in the afternoon when
It is cold outside and warm inside.
Or vice versa.
Rhapsody in Blue. I read it out loud. The cover’s faded to a green.
It doesn’t matter though. Never did, never will.
“It’s not literal,” she explains.
She sits and I sit. The pedals punch the floor.
The keys fight back. Crablike fingers against ivory beach.
Her shoulders hunched in concentration, swelling in rhythm.
And maybe there will be time to repurpose myself.
Future me will make peace with past me
And all will be fused and wondrous and bright.
The time is not now. Youth has not left me.
I am allowed to change. I am allowed to be nothing.
Lasting courage has not yet replaced fervent fits of passion.
“The Heart Wants What the Heart Wants.” She reads.
She tugs the bottom of my shirt as if wanting to make
The words a little longer, a little more than literal.
I paid too much for the shirt. Too little for the words.
We wear what we are. What we lack and we need.
Words are just closer to being than being is.
“And what does the heart want?”
Mostly blood, I suppose.
Sometimes love.
Francesca Schembri
Published in Issue 34