Woolgathering

Sometimes I wish my heart
would grow white columns and
hanging plants
that when broken it would
develop into something delicious,
sinful and mouthwatering; like
crushed sugar.

I see you passing your fingers over
its worn edges, absentmindedly,
or sometimes looking for it in tea cups
as a child would some dropped piece
of biscuit.
I see you
throwing it, like books,
into the fire until it smelled
like woodsmoke and ashes. Until
the fire scorched
your hands.

and I wish then my heart
was like books rescued
from fire and lipstick-printed
handkerchiefs gifted before
love's farewell.
Well loved, well hated.
Its original color washed-out, its edges
flame-licked, and its texture
ragged, wrinkled,
and moth-eaten.