2023
Perhaps it takes a careful excavation of the heart, scalpel precision, cutting away each ounce of love that evacuates through the arteries.
How easily an excavation turns into evisceration or even disintegration of what remains.
Perhaps instead a dam can be built – around that bloody, wounded organ, bricks inching higher as love wails and grinds its teeth, begging to be heard.
How easily this turns into a numbness, turning the heart into stone.
Perhaps instead the heart should freeze over, turn into a wasteland of ice where love cannot spread or grow.
How easily this becomes hoary indifference, quiet pain in the night, a secluded existence.
Perhaps in school it should be taught: how to unlove a kindred spirit, a former beloved, a lost lover.
How easily I could move on if the heart could turn love into acceptance or even distant fondness.
I have chosen instead to let love overflow, dedicating it to budding relationships.
Life is not over. Life moves on. Time moves on.
And perhaps, someday shall I.
P. A. Wilson, 
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