Death

The body dies while it lives. My heart dies. 27% of my heart is dead, from infection. I thought we were watching West Wing reruns and recovering from weariness, my heart and I. I thought I was figuratively heartsick. Dear heart, sweetheart, I thought you were pounding in my chest like that just to shake me a little, just to say hi. I thought you were pounding and that you and I were full. Full hearts.

You weren't. You were resisting a mugging. You were slapping his hands away and yelling, really loudly. You were trying to run except you were tethered and chained in my chest.

A little bit of my heart is dead. No one broke it. It got sick, it died. Its how it happens.

Its not a euphemism. Its just viruses, being dead themselves, being elegant, being perfect at what they do. If you're going to strive for the highest possible level of consciousness while your ticker is still ticking, forget about mediation, yoga, certain books, certain music, certain things with certain people.

Fall in love with a virus instead. I did. A virus stole my heart. A piece of my heart.

All is fair in love. I don't know yet about war.