Bleeding hart

To feel everything at once is much.
To be allowed and able to feel it all, is even more.

A bleeding heart is proof of life.
It does not run empty it overflows.
An abundance of pain and sorrow,
of longing and desire.

For it is in the missing
that you know it was real.
The little things.
The grand things.
The dreams.
The rise and the fall.
Great heights, followed by deep valleys.

Some will say it is too much,
too heavy, too wild, too raw.
Yet a rare few see the truth within:
loyalty in every breath,
trust that does not waver,
dedication that endures,
and passion that burns bright.

I cannot love in small measures.
My heart knows only extremes.
All or nothing.
But always something.