If your heart could speak,
it would speak the language
of the stars.
It would fizzle like bubbles
in a glass of champagne.
It would set like a saturated,
bruised sun.
It would cut up fruit
and plate them on dirty dishes,
washed in a
frenzy,
because the mouth is
for the tasting,
not the veneers.
If your heart were an artist,
it would paint the golden hour.
It would draw strokes of
Trastevere orange
and sunburnt shoulders,
of eyes squinting
from too much zest.
Still so young
the older
it
gets.
If your heart could sing,
it would sigh,
and not ponder for centuries
the futile,
trivial
question
of
why?
It would harmonize
orgasms and agonies.
Make the marvelous
blasphemy.
Find light in the tragedy.
If your heart could
love me forever,
it would turn my
bud of green
into
an engorged red.
It would rattle me until my
moans and cries
turned to lyrics instead.
It would shine a light
onto all of my dark places,
fucking me into healing,
until a new me,
stained by you,
became reborn.
© Stephanie Khio 2024