The conversation between the head and the heart,
To note,
Is a thrill.
It’s flesh, heat and touch;
It’s a hunger, periodic yet erratic;
It’s spasmodic,
Says the head.
It’s not the heat but the warmth, not the touch but the feel,
Not the sweat but the beating of the breath;
A case heart makes.
It’s inescapable fatigue,
Not a bliss that one longs.
Where does the elusive ecstasy rest?
Wonders the head.
Heart sighs:
Bliss is where you and I meet,
As you know, my dear,
Seldom we travel in the same direction,
Scarcely we meet,
Ecstasy is only a matter of chance.
