The Shape Of It

i think we give pieces of our heart away

if we knew the length of their residence elsewhere

perhaps we would be more cautious

but then we would wind up with nothing but our whole heart,

just an organ pumping

rather than the flute it becomes

memories fingering windpipe holes

like yesterday's reasoning and tomorrow's knowledge

perhaps there is no getting over

only through

as seems right

love is not something to be overcome, but to become one with

reconciled in either the having

or the have not

decks delt, cards stacked 

but there remains the space of it

the shape it was, and always is

melodic and missing.

.

.

.