This man from Devon is a man with one of those rattling hearts.
It's a rambler.
It's a true heart.
It's a hurt heart.
It's a determined son of a gun.
It's probably one that gives off a smell of burning, at times.
It wanders and settles in.
It's sticky. It's honeyed. It's salty.
He bangs on it often.
He deals with its changing winds and its crooked back.
He has tried to escape it, but he's never been so lucky, so he's simply bagged the thought.
He lasts through it.
The hurt is an old friend.
They enjoy coffee and quiet walks together.
They fight often.
They couldn't admire one another any more than they do.