Literary Magazine

Autopilot

The rises and falls are frequent,

somehow,

should there exist a possibility

of waves being locked in,

no,

waves being pumped from

this cardiac muscle?

 

The walls of my chest

must be holding

the bottom of an ocean,

A barrel, quite strong enough

to hold crests and troughs

A drum, so loud

so loud only when you’re near.

 

I could not be mistaken,

could I?

Science has taught me

that the moon can pull

all moving waters

the Earth cannot hold onto.

 

You must be made out of

the celestial bodies I’ve known

like the back of my hand,

affecting,

no,

messing

with all the supposed

gravitational pull,

 

How can you pull

all heartstrings in my chest,

the ones I can never hold onto?

 

I must be a planet.

 

The rises and falls are frequent,

somehow,

since when did my heart

start running on autopilot?

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