In my chest, a little to the left is rose gold that holds loneliness. From inside its carved hollow escapes the whispers of Casper, a yearning for the knowledge of tomorrow. A little to the left, the lid sometimes slides off, pushed slightly away by the pulse of blood against an artery wall, against cells that grew where nothing should have. Over the years the lid loosened, just the right muscle has taken over the smell of pennies and wrapped itself around the embossed edges, some of the so sharp, the muscle needed time to heal. But after time, the sound of the ocean poured out and it competes now with my heart beat.
On a better night, this lures me into sleep. Accompanied by the smell of ozone, it wraps around me and cradles me. I know it’s not a storm. I have a problem with thunder. The heart cannot overcome the dangers of the past, so I just tread around this loosened lid. Secrets all spill out into DNA spirals that now rely on rose gold for payment of all debts. I find myself climbing up that ladder. The spiral makes me dizzy with wonder and the day I walked into the bathroom in someone else’s home and just cried at everything he left behind. The stranger with his cigarettes.
Rose gold insists I don’t smoke ever again— “I shall tarnish and plus,” warns the rose gold, “you’ll be lonely. People won’t like the smell.”
A little to the left—my talking, guiding rose gold heart that tries to replace the one that beats by its side, dreaming bigger dreams.
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