The heart is not the mind

but I think this is the first time they’ve had equal say about whom I choose to be with.

I wrote this on the bus home today.



My little heart is clutched tight in my hand

as I make my way across the city

In time, its wings have learned to fly again

It’s soft and warm

beating only slightly harder

trembling just a little


On the way back, my hand is empty

My heart wasn’t stolen,

I left it willingly.

It perches on her shoulder

As light as it can make itself

I trust her bones to hold it

I trust that there’s a hollow in her chest

where it can sleep sound

(however small that may be)

I trust her gentle fingers

I trust her not to grow tired

of the flutter of its wing-beats

of the music of its song

of every note that is now sung

for no one

but her


The most surprising thing about all of this is how safe I feel. On loop, behind my eyes, is the part where she’s lying close to me and telling me how happy she is. I’m happy and I’m making somebody happy. We learned a new recipe and I told her things and asked her things.

Hardly anything feels afraid and my decision is complete. She had plans for us that I very nearly all missed out on. They’re written in a small pocket planner. Everything that is to become real starts as a dream that’s specific. Like, not “Our day will come / and we’ll have everything” but “We’ll go hiking in this specific area, on this specific date.” I am learning this.


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