The big things are not the things that flood and pierce the heart.
No, it is too careless for that.
It is like
A vase - Large, round, smooth, humbly brown
Save a collection of cracks and crevasses that line its surface
Like tributaries, like tall tempting trees
Entrenched in clay.
His words, her actions
His silence, her neglect,
His formality, her normalcy
Collect in a deathly moat, a sanguine pool of regret, mainly.
And it seeps through the cracks, slowly.
The heart at hand is big, thick, but not any less
Hollow or fissured.
It takes longer than most people
But the liquid rises and eventually over-
flows
A blossom of tears and voices in the head.
~tc
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