The Playmobil heart affair.

There were no roads, higways, rivers, lakes.
No talking either, all mouths were zipped.
There were no prairies, valleys, gorges, snowflakes.
It was all made of paper, plastic and things that beeped.
In the fake city with the neon lights,
the plastic boy could not carry the giant carnation on his back.
His only hope to go on a silent date, was to use his remote.

The Fix heart.

It was some time ago. It happened repeatedly or maybe just once.  It lasted a hundred sand-timer turns or maybe a single wink. I don't quite remember.

We were trapped amongst commuting shadows in a carriage that was trapped amongst other connected carriages on a train trapped amongst other crossing lines. And then this panic landed, remember? We hit the doors, you broke the windows with your fists, kicked the shadows in the balls and worked our way to the exit with the help of a harp player.

When we reached to the top, the air was morphine.

It took me ages to realise that down there in the darkness, I could barely see the reflection of myself in your teeth or the eyes soaking me up. It was rather uncomforting.

And now that I look back with a mind clear as June, I remember, how you were not even there. You were air. A perfect fix without a name of wide circulation.
 

 

The heart-balloon ride. 

I'd never seen a queue like this before.
A queue of aged people.

With walking sticks.
Pill-intake reminders in their hands.
Wheelchairs rolled by helpers.

Such sickness spreading in the air.
I'd seen queues outside pharmacies. Or banks. Even hospitals.

But never in front of a fig tree.
All of them betting their remaining drops of life for a magnificent and could-be-last, heart-balloon ride.

 

The not so heavy heart. 

This happens to be the girl with no hands. 

She has a not heavy heart.

She carries it around with her erected and not so short, braids.

This heart is not so fitted for her body. 

Her body is not big enough to fit her heart.

The "cheer up love" heart.

I must, by all means, keep moving.
Until the answers come.
I tried total stillness.
But the only answer that hit me was the perfection of my breathing.

Art by Scampi.