Open, incandescent heart.
Spring yourself from the platform of my sternum,
dive into the deep waters
of this oxygenated air,
sail through the sea of the palms of my hands
and shipwreck yourself
on the scuffed up surface of a drop-leaf table
my grandma bought before I was born.
Let me stare at you,
in rude and unapologetic fascination,
let me cradle your beats in wrinkled up fingertips,
wet with red and soaked up sweetness,
all that goodness seeping out
through paper towels and t-shirt scraps.
Outside of me, you shine like a new star;
all that space dust still settling,
still smelling of darkness, a black rose
blooming against the back of an eyelid.
Open up, incandescent heart.
Feel the four winds as they find you,
even inside all these walls; there are old things
that live on the wind and they can always get in
drape yourself in moonlit silk,
adorn yourself with a perfume
of pine trees and tomato plants,
apple blossoms and the mushrooms that grow
under new moons and no stars;
take up all the space you need
and throw your doors wide open,
because opening means looking out,
and looking out means finding,
and finding means the kind of tiny fulfillment
that enchants and encourages
and sets our feet on dusty paths
towards discoveries waiting for the specific touch
of our hands;
open up, and let me crawl back in after you.