A Heart Is Not a Metaphor
Some afternoons I love the way the light spills from the sheet’s eyehole, the way the scent from the neighbor’s booty call illuminates the noise.
Some days it’s enough to just unmake the bed, wreck the coffee by stirring in old tears, cover the TV with a scrim so all the characters resemble the good-looking zombies in an unknown Edward Hopper painting.
And yes, I know I can’t erase the birthmark from my death certificate, can’t remake my mouth into a permanent smile.​​​​​​​
Still the rumble beneath the mambo soothes me.  Who wouldn’t enjoy the elongated shadow a marred language leaves behind on the wall?
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