That Godforsaken Day

She was, for many moons, the velvet cover of the portals inside my heart, there was, majestically, the grand aorta, the mitral valve and then its lowly cousin, though essential, the oft forgotten tricuspid. Leaves just the pulmonary, and there my new suspicion has its focus, the foramen ovale, a short lived yet so vital hole allowing frank communication until the day when you or I, godsent or accident of Nature, arrive, to stay until we die. Did you, you lovely devil, really inhabit any chambers, or was it a dream, a wish that ought to be reality in anyone's existence? There were those promises, though given hastily, with blind and deaf and urgent fervency, acceptance, no longer simply and haphazardly just hoped for, it was a truth, a law of Nature, commandeered by Gods for you and I, who were, oh yes, the innocent, the chosen, it was July, in all geographies, even yours and mine, and weather bothered, as it always does, so many people, the woes of life in civilised restraint kept many occupied and from the purpose which may have hung about nearby. It had no meaning to us, nothing mattered unduly, for you and me, pre-ordained must surely feel like this, handcuffs and shackles, made of Manuka honey, and topped with whipped vanilla cream. So many, we could not keep up count sweet nothings, such warm whispers, and touch through cyberspace that burned, and tickled the flesh, anew each day. And words, ach, where did they live these strung together soothers, whereof were utterings composed and why had they, in times of comfort in convention, hidden themselves and their ulterior meanings away from us, only to re-appear and rule. No doubt, there was a trance, hallucinations notwithstanding, it was 'to wit', my dear, until the day a battle of significance was lost, not here on earth but in the endless skies, between the Gods of Cardiology and Love and something indescribable, intangible, which sent the signal down to strip and rip with cruel claws the velvet from our linings, and roughen up the great aorta, the tricuspid, blow out the foramen ovale, once again and, all in all create an intermittent turbulence once more.. And thus it came to pass, on that forsaken day that one heart broke, although still held together by old twine of bland tradition, double-stitched, and double-breasted like a suit in mothballs. And so it functions, waking early mornings, producing postventricular contractions readily, as if in protest to the evils of this world. It is not known what fate has struck the other, one cannot hear sweet words or feel a single thought when one brave soul has closed her eyes and fallen silent .