The Tactile Heart


Your lover has turned to stone, at his Midas touch your heart has burst into a thousand swallows in the sky, fleeing the winter that is your body. Your hand rests in his, you hold a bone in your heated palm.

Unlovely heart, desiccated, stone fortress in the midst of war. Against it fierce tempests break as waves against a rocky shore, the scent of Spring’s first blooms fails to charm the cast-iron windows.

A plum blossom’s petals wrinkle at the gentlest touch; as the morning sun lights the stubble plains, as the salt wind whistles through lovers’ hair, it is paling, rotting, dying.

Yet every sensation it feels is as bright and untinctured, as first it ever felt.