A vibrant tuning fork in hand.
This is normally a prime time for burrowing a hole in your heart.
Almost immediately you tell me to videograph your heartache.
You claim that this crowded urban area saps your optimism
and your love for your fellow human.
Someone’s banging on the door, yelling: get out, get out.
You will slowly reopen your heart and repair the gaps, and hope for the best.
It’s still not easy to be asymptomatic.
Over the next couple of weeks before June love forlorn, love clinically
enervated, will disappear permanently.
Fuel for the broken heart.
Food for stormy weather.
“When I’m struggling with writing fiction, I turn to reading other forms: poetry or, most often, nonfiction that intensely investigates a topic unfamiliar to me.”
— Mary South