Reflections
Your heart is such a funny thing.
So long it had experienced light
and comfortable ripples and rips.
This is the first time
your heart truly crapped
it’s belongings to the ground.
The mirror is the last place you go.
To you— your face looks like
the perilous product
of a chimpanzee’s attacking hands.
To me, love, your face,
shimmies and shammies
like a blaring jazz band.
No longer infantile, naive, young.
Now it’s filled with
melancholy songs.
They avoid being sung.
Growth is beautiful.
Your heart has landed solid.