what makes a heart ache

There is a crack in the apple's flesh, a glimpse at the sweetness that my childhood memories ache for as the moon wanders across an evening sky when spring breaks into summer. I may be 33 but I will not ever think of myself as an adult, but instead a child forever learning what makes a heart ache, what sweetens the song, what stirs a whisper, what pulls the blanket 'round.

There's electricity in the clouds that filters down until it is in my blood. The Oklahoma wind that restrains itself before the storm arrives is like a child running between his dream and his parents: Is it time? Is it now? And though I dream of some wind-blown connection that knotted us together, a country road girl with a forest creek boy, there isn't one to speak of that doesn't untie in the twist of a tornado. There is no folk song, no fiddle whine, no banjo twang, no omen that foretells this will come to pass. It may not, and it is best to not recognize that it may. May is a month of hope that falters in its step the more it walks toward doubt. The love may only be that of two stars who are always in the sky, always the same distance, always shining, but never any closer to each other than when they first shone.
written 5-12-2010