Heart

The day is done, though my heart ain't done breaking, yet.

The day drags on. Taking me with it.

Lately I've been filling my head with... stuff. List of things to-do, integral equations, ideas for the blip, bullet points for a narrative report, the way Claudia from "The Bluest Eye" remembers the first twigs of spring ("Even now spring for me is shot through with the remembered ache of switchings, and forsythia holds no cheer.").

The collection of the discrete, and the disparate crowds out thoughts that would otherwise stop the day on its tracks, that would keep the curtains closed, the flannel blanket over my head, the pillow-stifled heart-sobs...

Oh my heart. My heart ain't done breaking yet.