I have loved so much I can feel the weight of it. I have spent a lifetime loving wounded hearts. It’s not the same as loving healthy hearts. It’s like performing surgery for hours, days, months and years with no sleep. It’s a lifetime of being weary, drained from the constant out pour of soul light with only small chances to replenish. Sometimes my heart has become a skeleton void of flesh, veins and blood, clattering along, hoping no one bumps me and turns me to dust. I want to be fat with the over indulgence of wholeness. I want it to weight my calves and create flaps beneath my arms. I want the love I feel to be spilling over, constantly pouring itself over my skin. There is a well churning inside of me. It is a bottomless possibility of everlasting goodness. I wish for it to fill, bubble over, enter the cracks and heal the scabs. I wish it to create waterfalls in the crevices of my being, pools at my feet, rivers through my fingers and moats across my pain. I have loved raw, mangled and assuming. I pile the bodies on rafts; push them into the tide and watch them drift into the vast sea. There is a stillness settling in; like smooth glass. I press my toes into the sand, gazing at a reflection. A girl with green eyes dripping with the remnants of sunrises. She is strangely familiar, and I am urged to understand her. I have seen love inside of mirrors, and I am beginning to recognize its face.