the heart, my home.

You awaken when one comes along that you notice, that you sit straight up for, that you chaotically pat at your coat pockets, your jean pockets, your back pockets hunting for the keys to your house, to your heart for.

You turn into your chest and fly through the door and flush the toilet, take out the garbage, lick your fingers to smooth down flyaways really, really fast in the mirror and open the door. And the unrequited, maybe they do a slow drive-by with a complimentary pause, maybe they stick their head in the door, maybe they wander around nodding and being polite as they heart hunt, as you point out the square feet and the cool tunnel in the attic and the spacey backyard.

When you close the door, you take a second with your hand still holding the door knob, mournfully rifling through what just happened.

Then you go heel to toe double checking the square feet, just to make sure. You squeeze yourself up into the attic and lightly run your fingers over the books and the films on the shelves, "I thought these were great, no? Was I wrong?" You pause on the back deck wishing you would've told him about the puppy you want to get.

That's how I used to view unrequited love.

In my excitement, I wouldn't filter who I toured through and when they left, I took it as verdict, unsure of where I came up short.

But I don't do that anymore.

Oh, I still notice and awaken, still quick fire pat for my keys.
My heart, like everyones, desires to be visited, craves to be known.

But because I now know it's lit so intricately and the fireplace crackles with embers and a sweet hum of life pulses out of heated floors, I'm more vigilant. 

At the door, I'll pat your legs, "Are they strong?" and look into your eyes, "Are they true?"

I know my heart, man.

I also know where the whiskey is kept and you can't have any if you're a dickhead.