MY HEART ACHES

Does it matter for whom?
Do you mind?
My heart aches.
Isn’t that enough?
Must I explain
enlarge
apologise?
Must I feel guilty?

It aches, my heart.
That’s the only way I can put it.
It’s as simple as that.

So, for a bit
do not talk about a sense of proportion
or point out major issues
or sigh patiently
or say "Really -- tut, tut."

Do not, please.
There’s no need.
One part of me knows all that
and is sorry
but it does not diminish one jot
the fact that here and now
my heart aches
and tears spring unbidden to my eyes
and overflow.

To be sure, you can’t know.
For instance, you never saw her run
did you?
(God, how she ran, just for the heck of it.)
And the cut of her coat was far from
elegant, yet what a swagger she assumed,
comical for one so diminutive.

There were a lot of things like that,
that tickled me,
warmed me,

made me forget
for a bit
the vanity and errors of human life,
and now suddenly, full stop.
It’s all not there . . . not here . . .
nor anywhere.
A small glow is extinguished
A background heat is missing
And my heart aches.

Let me put it this way.
If she’d had "longer legs and less than four"
no matter
for a time
my heart’s discomfort
could not be deeper.

No comments please.
Tolerate my emotions.

Old Kipling would.
Oh yes.
He said:

"Brothers and sisters
I bid you beware
of giving your heart
to a dog to tear."