She comes to my doorstep late in the night. I’ve had no forewarning to her presence. She comes through my door and proceeds to rip her heart from her chest and hand it out to me. I take it – carefully – and survey the red, bloody, fleshiness of it; the tale-tell throbbing of a vibrant, passionate soul.
I do the same – the gaping hole in my chest doesn’t hurt in this kind of situation. I know what we are about. We so rarely have this time to review and comment on the changes – this mark here, that smudge there — add a little spit shine to this area and elbow grease too. Is that shade a little darker; or redder?
And then, abruptly, it is done. Hearts are returned to chest cavities – manhandled, but better (in this case) for the wear. A hug and she’s gone.
This is the oldest and dearest of my soul mates; and still, somehow, we make time for a heart to heart.