A Heart’s Drip

what a luxury it was for people to be able to hold their loved ones whenever they wanted.” ~Cecelia Ahern


I am almost certain that I recently broke. I laughed. I did not just emit properly timed laughter; I really laughed, almost hysterically. At some point during mid-laughter, I sobbed. Just like that. My laughter transformed into pitiful wails instantly. I could not stop. I sobbed that way for almost a solid hour, just gasping for air in between gut-wrenching sobs. Oddly enough, I do not remember what was so damn funny in the first place; it was something I saw on the television. It was during the next moments that I woke.

Really. I did. I just felt different, not better or worse, just different. I guess I finished another stage. Following my break, tears just continued to flow down my face. I know because the tears tickled my face and I would have to wipe them away. Sometimes, a tear would quickly make its way down my cheek and fall onto my book. Just like that—drip . . . drip . . . drip. It must be comparable to existing as a leaky faucet. I remember wondering if there was a way to turn the faucet off. (Note to self—there is not an arrow on one’s heart directing which way one should turn for off).

I spent the next day in silence. Total silence. I did not turn on the radio or television. The only sound I heard was the sound of the wind whenever I walked my dog and the occasional drip . . . drip . . . drip . . . of the faucet from my heart.

“When Grandma read me:
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall . . .

                            I never

(Lee Bennett Hopkins)

 And there is not one fuckin’ king’s man or horse who can put Humpty Dumpty back together or one fuckin’ plumber who can fix a heart’s drip. Not one.

©Relinda R. 2013


9 thoughts on “A Heart’s Drip

  1. I know this is not what you would consider good poetry, but it was written by a young man that had his reality turned up side down.

    Remind me again of those innocent days
    The days when the guns just made pops
    And the bullets did not sting.
    And our imagination was our reality.

    How did we grow out of those innocent days?
    When war as fun and we fought an imaginary enemy
    Often we fell but never did we die.
    And our imaginations was our reality

    Those days were lost in the big green
    The weapons were real
    And the bullets did kill.
    And reality destroyed our imaginations

    We grew beyond our age in the big green
    War was horror and enemy were them
    Often we cried for fallen comrades
    And reality destroyed our imaginations.

      • there is actually a very beautiful song that says something about imagination and reality. The title is I’ve never been to me. I have seen it on YouTube. One persons reality is another persons imagination. One wishes to be the other but in truth they both had the best of all worlds.

          • They may flee before but we never lose them. They do not exist in mysterious parallel worlds to the one we inhabit. Once we have passed that moment of reality they are the things of dreams. Each an animation of the other. Never knowing which is real and which the animation. A cartoon set in motion by this simple fleeing moment we call reality.

  2. Somewhere in this haunting piece is the difference between being healed and being cured. Being mostly Irish I’m comfortable with the notion that things can stay broken for a long time and we’ll still make do. One day, when it feels right we find a way to heal; to make the drip stop or else find a way to live with it. Either one works. That doesn’t mean it’s ever easy, though. When the time comes the narrative may end up getting re-written somewhat. The fact will still be the facts but maybe the light that illuminates them may be just a bit softer.

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