In Which Beat a Heart with Pockets Bearing Holes

     There is something about her, thought the universe as it sat perched upon the cliff of infinity.

     And indeed, there was something about this girl, in her wavy golden hair and the stars sparkling in the depths of brown pooling in her eyes; in her silk yellow dress and perfect white tights, and they way her gaze traced both the sky and the path on which she tread.  In her chest beat a heart with pockets bearing holes; what were expected to safely keep love tucked into her possession were torn and bleeding, a trail of honey-like sweetness left in her wake.  The birds and beetles would come out from time to time, feeding on the kindness left sparkling by the trail, and poets would chase her with ink wells extended to catch the love as it spilled.

     Her cheeks bore constellations inked in the color of sand soaked with seawater, and were often stained with the sunset, which, too, bled its hope across the sky and onto sheets of blank paper.  She was brilliant.

     And as her dress collected dirt and grime, she would still twirl in it, and plant wildflowers in the pockets of soil that flew off as she danced.  Those wildflowers would sprout and grow to the watering of her tears, and grow to face the yellow of her dress as the sun.  They would grow into imperfections too perfect for bouquets in crystal vases but just sweet enough for a random act of kindness.

     She began to cry, though, for her heart began to clink empty in the wind, hollow and as blown glass.  As dusk swallowed her, she tucked herself into a drained pocket of her heart, gray and cold as stone.  Her once perfect tights were perhaps too perfect for the world, and bore holes through which the sun burned her skin.  Her hair was knotted from dancing with the earth that refused to dance with her, and her eyes were faded.

     She, perhaps, was too perfect for the world.

     And yet, she rose once more to the stars fading into brightness, toes at the edge of a cliff outlooking the sea.  She thought, as she stood there with her dress fluttering in the wind, about all those who had traced her path across sheets of blank paper, and she couldn't help but feel a flicker within her chest:

     Her chest, in which beat a heart with pockets bearing holes.  She was a filter, it seemed, in which love filled her heart but drained into the souls of others rather than holding it close.

     Perhaps, she realized at once, she could hold close the souls.

     And as she stood beneath the stars deepening into the boldness of her freckles, her heart, which still bore holes, was filled.

      There is something about her, thought the universe as it perched upon the cliff of infinity, for with every drop of love she loses, she herself becomes even more infinite.