Wild Horses

Heart-Love-Wood-Surface-WallpaperAs a lover of the abstract and the symmetrical, living in a city where architecture and magnificent artwork is plentiful, is certainly a treat. My eyes feast upon the labors of love and the power of creativity. I am speaking of art, buildings, people who decorate the street of a cosmopolitan gray overcast like extraordinary flowers that spring up in the coldest of winters.

But there is new decor, new adornment that make my eyes squint and square as they attempt to decipher the convoluted twists and turns of the bulbous, floating, ornaments. They call them, Hearts. Heart. The word echoes in my mouth, in my chest; I feel the vibrations in my stomach and they dribble up to my mind in a desperate frenzy comparable with commuters squeezing into the final train of the hour. The madness is overflowing and I suddenly remember why, who.

Too dramatic and unnecessarily building, would it be to say, “I had a heart once”. They are uncontrollable, insatiable, blessings from the divine. But, in a hushed and nonchalant tone of one who has come to terms with the state of emotional wellness, I  smirk, I had a heart once…susceptible.

My heart had a ring to it, a melody, a hum worthy tune that made it tickle with joy and long for the desired with ardor. When it was a lone being, it was a gapeseed to the view of an open window , the forlorn for far away treasures that would gift it the satisfaction of quenching the most burning tongue. But when it loved, when it loved, it it electrified the air because it ran with spirit, it galloped like a stampede of ancient and forceful wild horses that journeyed to the ends of overwhelming horizons in no search, only riding on the wings of glee.

It must have been cold out. I don’t quite know why but I remember the cold. I remember when we walked and stepped over the cracks in the sidewalk on our way back from what had been an adventurous evening, one of many. You always seemed to make jokes when we stared at each other too long. It bothered me, but you apologized without me mentioning it. 

You had only that one light. When it was on, it dimly lit up the corner of the room, and your window sill was an extra seat on warmer days. You always sat there, even in the cold, as you exhaled your cigarette smoke exaggerated by the breathe of crisp, fall air. But tonight we sat together and I was warm besides you. It was one of those nights: small pastries on the table, wine in our cups, music in the background and laughter in our cheeks. That night you said you loved me, and my heart was taken upon the backs of Wild Horses, as it played in the background of the most perfect scene in our luminous and ostentatious paragon of romance.


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