Isabelle said empty bottles and I thought ‘I’ve got one of those somewhere’.

some of my hearts are warm, wet flesh
thrumming under my skin at my neck, my wrists, the tops of my thighs
the pulse, the squeeze
da-dum, da-dum, like a two-end drum

some of them are suede couches,
soft to the touch, big enough to swallow you whole
when you sit down;
smothering you with tiny fibrous kisses
snuggling into the small of your back
nuzzling the space behind your ears.

but there’s at least one,
two-fifths of the way from my chest to my back,
that’s a shapeshifting glass bottle
balanced and chiming on my ribs.

sometimes it’s full of water
(which splashes over the thick circle rim when I dance or run)
and sometimes smooth grey pebbles
(water-worn like the best of me, all seamlessly wonky)
and sometimes dried thorns, or a potpourri of dead-and-mourned roses
and sometimes just a single butterfly
or a fine coating of Iceland ash.

sometimes it’s a tiny perfume spritzer
or a jar for strawberry jam
but today it’s a milk bottle, wide and solid
and comfortably half-full of warm, sweet peace.