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My heart knows the Socratic Method. It searches and inquires to find one like it. Longs for another beating vessel to speak to. One that’ll listen and in turn respond. My heart has the makings of an expressionist. As I let old paintings of old love hang up so they can dry. It’s much easier to take a step back and admire the beauty in them that way. The blemishes and imperfections don’t seem so ugly. Lessons. I count them as unique birthmarks. My heart reborn after every serious encounter. My heart has lived for a thousand years. It is ancient. Each time I enter into a new love it feels new. As if it jumped through time and the oxygen wasn’t the same. The water even taste different. There’s more radiation in the air. I feel like it pumps my blood easier the older I get. Pumps my life blood throughout my body. My DNA more easier to decipher by someone who has never looked under a microscope. I am exactly who I present myself to be. No longer do I explain my hills and valleys. My pits and my self-decay that I cover with the robes of my acceptance. My heart accepts you even when you don’t accept me. It speaks in a language that you don’t understand. A language that was lost, but is easy to rediscover. Our libraries have books on this subject matter, but I’ve never been. I’d burn it down if I didn’t have the caveat. There’s a reason I still wear one loose chain. Just enough slack so that I can sometimes not feel grounded. I’m suppose to speak at least 7,000 words a day.I’d cease to exist if most of that wasn’t what I wanted to say. What my heart wanted to say. It speaks for itself.

Sometimes.

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