How will you hold your heart?

I know you don't want a million dollars.
I know you don't want to see the Taj Mahal in Spring,
or wear fancy clothes, and golden rings.

I listen. Not to the words you speak,
but to the spaces between them,
and to what those spaces speak towards.

I hear how your heart rings
like even the most ordinary heart,
a discontent so mundane
it seems distant from the divine,
yet it is not so.

Darling,
your longing was meant to be lived,
it is a mark of your love,
already whole,
asking something of you.

Telling you, also, that
your heart was made to be broken
and the world will break it many times
before the end.

Why else would there be
this sacred earth, who cries, unanswered,
and those beautiful bodies
that you call friends.

This too asks something of you.
It will all disappear in the end.

But today, beloved,
your body still breaths,
broken, or soon to be.

How will you live your love that sings?
How will your hold your heart that rings?