Worn on the sleeve
I used to envy those who carried their hearts safe surrounded by the warm fellowship of other organs.
worn on the sleeve mine fits no item of clothing, so rides exposed, bumping into this sharp-edged tongue, or that pointed remark.
but a bleeding heart is never really broken, and worn there it escapes its ribbed-cage.
on the lam, its every beat sucks in sorrow, pumps out sweetness, the flow of life and its ebb.
wristworn its hands waving, it warns all and me, each staccato second, that the time is always