A sleeve and a heart

There is something to be said of the soul that wears it’s heart on a sleeve
tugged and pulled at so hard that it’s wrist had no protection to boast,
just raw skin aching to ripen with every bit of sunshine that touched it,
every bit of rainfall that graced its extended palms
opened up toward the sky, ready
to catch the burning stars
even if it meant it had to hold fire,
fingers clutching around a ball of heat
willing the star to lend it’s light to the soul that dared to hold it, and maybe,
just maybe
give the soul the courage
to boast it’s exposed wrist,
heart dancing on it’s naked sleeve.

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