the most beautiful thing: corazon humana
His voice reached in like it does each and every time, it reached in with surgical steel precision and plucked the suchers sewn hastily in the wake of disappearance, sewn hastily again and again, sewn hastily under no stars and all stars and morning stars and mistaken stars where planets used to be. His voice and his melancholic melody swam in and around this heart a hemisphere above the disappearing act, the disappearing act a quick flash of hand on the screen, disappearing, this disappearing, this damned cayote cut out like nothing before or since. This simple heart of human, this corazon humana left exposed and gasping in the wake of every melancholic timbre ridge. This corazon humana preciosa. Preciosa. Much longer tonight and I will not know which voice it is that rings in my ears. Is it his, unwrapping suchers, or yours ungagged behind heart walls? You say it again and again in my ears. Mi preciosa.
And I think to myself, it is a miraculous thing to hold this heart. In hands. Miraculous. It is. Did you know that when it was your hands doing the holding? Did you know that every word would etch its way across my chest, scraped letters traced again and again on my riblets, carved phrases shredding the arterial walls? Did you know? I have left you only two options. Which is the lesser crime?
I long so deeply to feel those Pacific breezes on my cheeks again and to look up at the satellites cutting through the Cruz del Sur and to drown in palta morning and night, lips heavy with oil, eyes dusted with joy. And if I do, it will not be because of you. It will be because this heart is opened at the softest depth of touch and will keep being opened again and again, massaged to life by way of near-collapse mid-song and mid-night to reveal the doves nesting within begging for spring cleaning. And with every sweep, I will be closer to making the trip alone.
And the only heart beating against my chest in the airport will be my own. This beautiful, precious corazon humana. And I will sing a simple melody to myself to remember this night and these stars and the one I loved.
“I threw stones at the stars but the whole sky fell.”
~ Gregory Alan Isakov
Photo by JC Lewis.