Up close

I was crazy about you.


… You got that right, kid.

♥ Her heart is a mosaic, full of cracks and flaws. Seen clearly from a distance. And so very beautiful up close ♥

I do not miss you more on Valentine’s Day

I do not miss you more on Valentine’s Day.

In the profusion of reds and intact hearts you are no more absent than you ever were.

(I do not miss you in the language of calendars and clocks – in the birthdays and the Christmas mornings and the ten-nine-eights of New Years Eve)

I miss you when it rains. That is all, and when.

(I do not miss you more than when it rains)

Little Clicks Joanne Piechota

Image by Joanne Piechota @ Little Clicks


The only truths I ever told were with my body, Mack. Every time I laid us down. The sincerity of the body has been much maligned by the idea that words are more honest than a beating heart. This is what I have learned since then, that my body knew us better. Every confession it ever made, those revelations in your arms, they were the only truths of our seven years, the gospel that I now believe.

It tried to tell us, time and again. Honesty traded from limb to limb, prayers written out across the body. And I have to believe that this is what lasts. That truth and faith are ultimately the same. That while we are all telling our little stories, trying to make our characters fit, our bodies remember a different truth. A leap of faith made when hands reach across the widest of chasms. And how sometimes, Mack, we nearly make it.

Beneath the thrum of expectation, the beating heart wins in the end. Because at the end of the day it is love that makes us, not the other way round. Messy, inconvenient, thoughtless love. No matter how hard we resist, it is the force that shapes our lives. The heart has always had other plans.

We can dress up in someone else’s clothes, we can recite lines fashioned from other mouths, and decorate our promise with beads and silk, but these offerings only last until the candles burn down. Love is what the body remembers.

The heart is a mosaic, Mack – full of cracks and flaws. Every splinter of glass we lay down simply adds to the composition of our love. Piece after jagged piece reveals the breaks and fractures the heart can endure. It is the pattern we make of this life. The story our body remembers. Seen clearly from a distance, Mack. And so very beautiful up close.

I pour another red and reach for a second glass. Lucy will soon be here with cake.

Mosaic at body, remember

(The end of Maggie’s story. Over to Lucy now …)


The chemistry of love. They study it in laboratories. We experiment every day.

There is a nerve that runs from the stem of the brain all the way down the neck, through the chest and deep into the abdominal cavity. It has been named Vagus, the wandering nerve – for the way it meanders through the upper body, the way it passes behind the ear and traverses the nape, before it roams across an aching breast, and lodges in our depths.

This winding nerve connects a watching mind with waiting matter, innervating skin and viscera on a current that carries pure sensation back to the brain. It exists as the darkest blue river on the map of the human heart.

Because it also traffics the most potent of drugs through our system: oxytocin – the love molecule. When we touch, when we arouse, the Vagus nerve fires and releases this chemical through-out. It works to solidify the experience in our memory, to soak the brain with feelings of trust and devotion toward the object of our stimulation.

The trickle turns to flood when we make love. We make love. We construct it through every caress, through the contact of skin against skin, the fix and lock of eyes when we coalesce. Fight and flight give way, we want to stay right where we are, suspending the heart in a liquefied chest. We have always been the creators.

You are both the source and the flow for me. You have traveled my pathways, wandered all through my terrain, trapped in this nerve from the first time we touched. The feel of my own skin is now the memory of yours.

I feel and I remember. An alchemy wrought each time we lay down.

Oxytocin and The Wandering Nerve at body, remember

Every day a little death

“What counts is not the best living but the most living.” – Camus

They are not the same mistakes. Most are brand new. Each time – a different set of hopes. Each time – a different way of dashing. A mosaic of mistakes as you endure time and again like Sisyphus with his rock (though it is your heart that you hold out in front of you, and your love that labours).

You have long known this to be your fatal flaw. An enduring optimism that will bring about a thousand little deaths in its time. Like the night that begins with open palms and ends with a dying in the light – when this was tomorrow you liked it more (as the dream you slept over so easily the night before).

Your heart is always in your hand when he slays you, this man. With his distance and his betrayals, with his dismissals and his reserve. He slays you in a thousand careless ways every day. And then waits in his own vigil for your resurrection.

Because there is always a resurrection, a return when the dust has cleared. Something elemental compels it – the blue of the sky or rooftop rain, or the silver of sunlight on water. All reminders that you have survived, and it is a giant shot to the heart when it hits. This little death that gives way to a renaissance when you hold out your hand, when you say “I’m still here”.

As another crack of glass is added to the composition of your love. Seen clearly from a distance, but oh so beautiful up close.

Reflection on the Water by Joanne Piechota

Image by Joanne Piechota at http://nycexploring.wordpress.com/

(He assumes I lose my reason. And I do)