The Heart of a Broken Story
by hurricanejessica
“The only real difficulty in concocting a boy-meets-girl story is that, somehow, he must.”
Yes, meeting is necessary
of the minds
and in the middle
but for action potential to translate into a tale
there must be a “must.”
I must.
He must.
There is no telling what would occur were I, like light, to pierce the blinds of his reason,
a beam of tangible warmth, across his face
across his skin,
producing another freckle of self doubt to hold his focus
and quell the deepening sweetness of the “must.”
And who can know, if I pushed that “must” through my throat, with my tongue
If he would even feel it.
And so here, there is no story.
The cells are poised and ready to fire
but the hand never touches the stove.
The triangular rubber point never makes contact with the knee.
Instead, he waits, so very curious about the heat, hand hovering above the orange coil.
Here, there is no “must”
only desire
to know the thing, to touch it
and pull away.
