Over the course of one's lifetime
our heart changes shape, 
it evolves and transforms. 

Once untouched, 
unbroken in its entirety 
an unblemished, whole beauty.

Somehow beyond our comprehension, 
defying all we know of logic, 
through heartbreak it becomes 
even more beautiful, 
weathered and worn, 
so delicate yet so strong. 

I think of my heart
as a frayed edge quilt, 
wove of tattered fragments,
each aging piece unique, 
intricately woven into
patchwork perfection.

Every single pitiful looking segment 
of my well worn patchwork heart 
represents a special memory, 
a funny story or tear streaked cheeks. 

Yet when they are bound together
they tell my life's story,
a story full of survival, 
of insurmountable fears
and devastating losses, 
of mistakes and triumphs.

However, above all else, 
an unmistakable tapestry, 
containing in its stitches,
story after story of love.

Each tale is unique because 
no two loves are alike.

Some tore open my fragile heart, 
and others held me tightly,
healing the breaks,
bridging the chasms. 

Every single love left its mark
forever a part of my patchwork heart.

Some darkened by my flaws
and others rippled with yours,
what was once untouched 
can no longer hold its center alone, 
can no longer bridge this divide 
without another's hands. 

I think of my heart 
as endless threads, 
the passing years 
shift this unique loom 
to create a sprawling design, 
a malleable mosaic for you. 

We all have our own patchwork heart,
whispering softly of aching desire
in our intimate moments. 

Meanwhile, bearing the ache
of unkept promises,
as if we were characters 
following stage directions 
in our own tragedy,
helpless as the love story ends. 

When two people truly fall, 
finding their own story,
their hearts are bound, 
tethered tenuously together
by threads of shared memories, 
inside jokes and intimate secrets. 

When put to the test, 
our patchwork hearts
prove to be much stronger 
than their unfinished edges, 
than the needles held
by shaky but caring hands, 
as mismatched patches appear. 

And we can trace the courses,
our deepest pulse along the pattern, 
and every mark in this patchwork 
inevitably leads us home 
to weave into one another
the broken hidden pieces,
the ones that shimmer 
with nothing but love.

Strength born from the fibres 
that bind our story, 
interlaced by the striking beauty,
the hunger of late night lust, 
of souls learning to fuse. 

No one makes it through life
unscathed by its inescapable grip, 
forever changed by its beauty, 
yet scarred from heartaches,
yearning for who we've lost, 
yet optomistically aching for
all the love waiting to be stitched together.