One Heart

Be it that one heart is burdened in sleep

In time of peace, one heart finds himself without peace

On that occasion: Where must one heart be comforted? 

Be it that one heart is burdened in prayer

In time of need, one heart kneels and kneels and kneels

On that occasion: When must one heart be comforted? 

Be it that one heart is burdened in love

In time of weakness, one heart remains blighted

On that occasion: How can one heart be comforted?

But one heart is weary and sleepy and sad

So one heart finds a hiding place 

Stays there forever 

Lest he burden another heart

But it appears to be that one heart is burdened always. 

And dear, dear reader,

In the end it is a sad fact that

One heart discovers the saddest 

And most uncomfortable burden of all

And it is that one heart is burdened
Most

Whilst
Alone.

You're a person who enjoys their own privacy.

I get that.  

Still, I'd argue with you about how you give it all away when you slowly, very slowly, turn your head to the entrance and watch people as they walk in and out.. in and out. Hey, I'm talking to you. 

When your forefingers, and only your forefingers, cling to the ends of your shorts when you stand. You have long arms and your feet: they're always crossed as if nature's constantly calling and you look so anxious it drives me anxious. 

You also gulp down a shot of air mid-speech; you do that a lot. You wouldn't be you if you don't do it.

And your neck stretches at times and it looks like you want to get rid of your body, because you stretch it upwards and your lips contract inwards and in a second your head and neck will break free and your body will be left all alone. I know that this is an ugly way to describe it but it seems like that's what you really want to do.

And sometimes, sometimes you walk like a vertical plank of wood with feet. Sometimes, not always. And I contemplate asking you if you're trying to balance an invisible stack of books on your head. But I keep quiet because you wouldn't like me asking. 

And one thing you always do is look at me. You look at me when you really should be addressing the person who asked you the question. You're shy.

When you're happy you skip, you move in flying leaps. 

And when I ask you how you're doing, you say, "What's up with you?"

So I stopped asking you how you're doing and I make it my prime concern to figure you out through your skips and obvious inattention and your invisible books and unruly neck. 

You can't call it a breach of privacy if I don't tell you that I notice it all.

But I saw that.

I saw it. I see it all.

And if you don't mind

I would really like to see more.