Four chambers has the human heart
That pumps life for decades on end
A mechanical muscle-machine that does its job
Unthinking, unblinking, just pumping
What spark flipped the switch to “on,” and finally “off”…
Who knows?
But there is a fifth chamber
An invisible chamber
That knows no x-ray
And often no thought or consciousness
A molten iceberg of passions
Fifteen-sixteenths below the surface
And even though life has worked out
In all its goodness and trials
And the course has finally steadied
From youthful impetuousness
The Fifth Chamber sneaks out
At the best of moments
(Which is the worst of moments)
To jerk the steady steering wheel of life
Ever so slightly
To shake up the driver
And demand an old attention
The fifth chamber is a hidden place
Scanning life, taking notes, making choices
In the tangled path of lovers
Some come and rest for a while
Then leave abruptly, or over time
But the love or passion that was once coal hot
Is stone cold dead, leaving no trace…
Just a name, or a face, or not even that
Maybe just a vague sense that something long ago occupied some space
And yet…
There are some
Very few
Maybe one
Maybe two
Who own a small corner of the fifth chamber
Maybe it’s merely a melancholy mental fiction
A catalog of qualities that those few had
But something…
Something is unmistakable
Unalterable
Immutable
Inviolate
Kindliness becomes epic
A sweetness that is almost painful to remember
The myopic view that only sees dopamine, crush-drenched moments
How the thought of those inner real estate holders
Yet triggers full body tenderness
Soft focus moments
In Maxfield Parrish hues
Of glowy magic illuminations
Surrendering to the colors
Of awakening daybreak
And hypnotic, peaceful dusk
Yet it always has the tinge of pain of something lost
Flutterings of the heart
May seem disloyal to another
But no one is free from their own Fifth Chamber
Just look a little closer
And everyone will stand
On that hangman’s gallows
With the same sweet melancholy pain and memory
Of an innocent time and place
That sweet soft spot
Can be ignited by a breeze
Or a sunset
A happy pain
Sheathed in that hidden bunker
A stealth cupid’s arrow
Once landed
Refuses to let a long ago wound heal
It is ever bruised and aching to the touch
If that territory is visited
Is it cheating?
Is it a phantom affair?
Is it – even with the name on that inner real estate deed –
Real?
Or is it all a slow-cooker fiction
A fantasy with hidden awareness
That it didn’t work then
Because it couldn’t work then
Or now
Or ever
Which means that name
That person
That phantom
Is an affair with Self
Self-inflicted fantasy
Self-inflicted desire
Self-inflicted longing
Self-inflicted pain
Why hunt for a Facebook post
Or more dangerous
A live momentary glance
In the hopes of locking down
An interpreted promising sign
That your name occupies a chunk
Of that invisible chamber
In the heart across the way
It’s folly
It’s cruelty
To Self
To a true life partner
To the Other who may still be alone
Why do this strange dance?
It’s just something to fill the time
Of so many years
Of so many heartbreaks
Of wanting ownership of something
In a borrowed life
From the force that starts the heart beating
