Water breaks. I am born. I move into the air. Into this here and now.
The heart breaks. I continue on. I learn how to continue on. I put pieces together in the places I believe they belong. In the only way I know how.
I try to love again. I want to love again.
I put my heart back together, hastily, vigorously. I do not look at the breaks. I do not want to look at the breaks.
I did not look at the space between the pieces.
I would not look at the space between the pieces.
My heart breaks again and again and again. It falls easily apart. With a blow or with a light tap, it falls apart. I see, it falls apart, always in the same way. A jigsaw puzzle.
I hold your hand. I hold my hand. I hold my heart. In my hand I look at the pieces of my heart. I look at the breaklines. And I look at the shapes. Each its own continent. Each its own world.
I lay the pieces out. I move my gaze to each edge. Only in comparison to eachother do I understand the way they fit together.
I close my eyes. I run my fingers along edges. I touch the angle of each break. I feel the way one edge mirrors its match. I find and I feel, two surfaces which parallel one another. And I bring them together.
I close my eyes to heal my heart. I am a spider. A finger paints each breakline with one single strand of web. I hold the pieces together, until, I wait, until they fuse. Caressing each break. Painting each break. Fusing each break. Slow, inquisitive, patient, with trust, with love. I turn to myself, with intuition, with desire, with a need to love. With love I mend my own heart.
I hold a shape in my hands. An egg. I trace my fingers along miniscule lines. Lines that tell a story. Lines that draw a scene. Lines that speak my name. Breaklines are the veins of my heart.
I open my eyes. In my hand. My heart. A translucent orb, beating with an angular, golden pattern. I turn my heart over and over and over. A spider’s web envelopes my heart and glistens like the edge of a cloud, backlit by the sun.