Some days, I swear my heart is like a rocket-ship, a too-many-tiered thing sent, exploring off in space; and every day, a small bit explodes off and plummets back to earth, widening the orbit of my soul. I was getting used to silence. The shocking stillness of space.
Then, from the inky blackness of space, you came careening, and—crashed—right into me. My gears went all ballistic and the only message I could receive from my brain was static as we were thrown from our orbits, hurtling down down down and—right before we crash-landed in the Pacific—you reached out your hand and said, “Let’s go fishing.”
I waited, treading water as you dove. Sputtering, coughing up water, you’d return from the depths of the ocean deep, clutching little bits and chunks of my rusty-metal heart and press them into my palms before diving back for more.
What happens when you find the bits I don’t want you to see? The pieces I desperately want to remain hidden? It’s not worth it, I want to scream. But you’re underwater and can’t hear me.
Finally, when you’ve amassed all there is to find, you return for good. You’re exhausted, but I’m the one quaking, eyes squinched shut, holding the amalgamation of my heart out before me, like something slimy, rusted, and unwanted.
I open an eye.
“You beautiful, beautiful fool.”
You take the heart, press it where it belongs and even though it’s been marred by take-off, blast, plunge, and months in the corrosive deep, it fits. It works. And while I’m standing there, screaming at the intensity of this emotion-sparking bit of machinery, you drop to a knee with something else you plucked from the pelagic caverns.
Well, this’ll be one to explain to the folks.