hearts do not mend
they remain eternally shattered
broken, torn, shredded
the jagged fragments of seventeen are best for slaying future dragons
who slink about
and the burnt, paper-thin tendril curtains
which float on air at the whispers of promise know the tip-toe paths just beyond view where sunlight peeks between remaining branches
a sanctuary of earthly limbs
it is the rounded bits along the bottom
which are near perfect skipping stones
rubbed smooth with their seeking selves
so often pressed against another, hopeful
they may be tossed far and wide
tethering a shard, an essence of this fractured being to the wild, wandering waters
see, hearts do not regain form
chimerical wizards, shapeshifters
origami warriors building new designs
I suppose I'm still learning that any solid thing
a heart or mother's thrifted bowl
or this moment
can split, break, rip
and the joy is to let it do just that
hearts are fragile and duct taped with reckless abandon, joyful carelessness
glued haphazardly, hurriedly sewn
bruised, and scattered about
it's the soul that is whole
that's the glory