It is better to live in the desert, and when pieces of your
heart leave, they travel to wetter lands, where your heart might stay moist and
alive, blooming like a plucked flower in sugar water. But me? I live where the
sky is damp and dewdrops glisten on the grasses, and when my heart leaves in
pieces to the deserted lands, it dries and dies, withered and cracked as
weathered stones and the under-eyes of souls in windy lands.
And the arid heat grants no leave, for no heart survives to
thrive in these sands. The bleeding heart dries, cauterized by the searing heat
and the dust devils who’ve whisked away life. Lizards crawl into the cracks and
crevices, scorpions scuttle along the empty passageways.
One day, two threads may meet; then will they recognize the
seams the days have made?
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