My heart should be as large as the Grand Canyon.
Love rushing through it like water,
carving it out,
squirming its way in,
making it wider, deeper,
more soulful.
It should beat for those who love me,
and stop for those who die with me.
It should slow when touched
and race rapidly when moved completely.
I have dozens of families.
Each one is made with water.
Each molecule, each person,
moves my heart through life.
When I cry, they make it rain,
when I laugh they laugh rapids.
My love, he is my new family.
He makes rainbows appear
and lightening silence.
My sister, here on earth not in hereditary,
she is rain on a tin roof.
She is my everlasting family.
She is music, and beauty, and levies of strength.
They hold my heart, my complete heart.
For I could not love any other way, but love with everything I have.
My heart should be the size of the Grand Canyon.
My families are water.