There’s a problem.
"Houston, we have a problem,”
But it’s not in our mission.
We have a problem in (the reality of) the hypothetical.
It’s…
*a long pause and radio frequencies*
a heart problem.
“The heart?, but my charts say…”
“It’s not the charts, Martha.”
*the radio’s humming is drumming on the eardrums*
Martha.
Martha?
A hush signifies understanding throughout.
Suddenly everything needs to stop,
But the world keeps spinning and
Martha is drifting away.
In the midst of reaching for the stars
propelling herself
Working, rushing, a frenzy of action.
-striving
[again.]
gotta do this and that and
and
and
and
and nothing ever seems to get done.
She’s been pushing herself in all these directions
and it. is. all. failing.
This galaxy-sized accumulation of failures for a single life.
All of this-
is what Martha means.
So she asks. and it is heard over the radio waves.
The pitch is insignificant.
The rhythm is absent.
The calmness has abandoned.
“Why are Your hands the only hands-”
*the radio hums*
“That can handle
This heart?”
And in a desperate chorus,
the pitch rises, and the intonation dissipates,
and the rhythm is regarded as an old dress-
more appreciated when left in the closet
and- the repetition is as key as the pauses in between-
“Why are your hands the only hands
That can handle this heart?
And it’s loud. And it’s earnest.
Why are your hands
the only hands
that can handle
this heart?
why are your hands the only hands?
The volume begins to descend,
"why are your hands?
why are you?
why?"
Now its to a whisper, and beautifully, the whisper is heard for every sound wave.
It is received in stillness. and by all.
and the lungs fill,
and the eyelids softly take a break and fall
and sigh.
(She already knew the answer: it is because his hands made her heart)
The heart continues to beat inside its cage,
according to the printouts, that is
and Martha continues drifting in some kind of outer space
wishing a caterpillar could really change to a butterfly.
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