Alms

What I would say to his heart, if I could: I cried on you today. Not for you and not about you and not with you and not to you and not over you but on you. I cried topically. As if to offer alms to that wedge of my heart that had not divulged emotion in a long time. Healed, perhaps, but not hardened. Like sponge dried out on the windowsill of the time I’ve spent being busy around you but easily wet with pensiveness and easily wrung out. Sorrow’s not quite the word, but something like it. Sorrow that never found rest and won’t “on this side of heaven.” Wishing my heart’s demands were voided and blank anew. Yet just as undertaken by the mystery if they would be for you. If you could go back and erase everything you said and did, chances are you would write the same thing you did the first time. Maybe cause that’s what you’re used to OR maybe it’s because something inside scribbled for you. But this heretofore you shall never know and so garbled up, crunched afoot frustrations covalently bond with the indwelling oxygen my reminiscing craves and my tears begin to flow. Hot because I think tears just couldn’t be cold.

*My first attempt at spoken word. The rooms seemed to like it.