David Bowie

I sold my soul to a handsome devil in a David Bowie tee. He lifted my spirits, sourced my laughter,
brewed my happiness. When I offered him
my heart, he told me,
“That won’t do, dearie. Won’t do at all.”
For, you see, he said that a heart is too easily broken and then too easily mended. So, he said, in return for
his utmost affection, he would have no
less than my very soul.
When I inquired of him, “What is so stable
about a soul, as compared to a heart?”
He told me that a soul is impenetrable.
He told me that souls cannot shatter, and cannot break.
He told me that souls were made as a gift of love, and that was why we so often used the term “soulmates.”
He told me that my soul was the most beautiful one he’d ever seen.
He told me that, as Emily Brontë once said, whatever souls are made out of, his and mine were the same.
And he told me that, in return for mine, he would offer me is own soul. As incentives, he pledged to me even his mind and body. They were all to belong to me.
So I suppose I was a devil myself, in my own way.
And then that devilish man took this
devilish woman into his arms and pressed
a gentle kiss to her brow.

When I awoke from that dream the next morning,
I felt my heart crack and crumble inside
my chest.
He was right. A heart is so fickle.

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