the human heart is not exactly bright red.

it is dusk-lit and moth-bitten,

the colour of traffic at rush hour,

of midnight soup gone cold on the stove,

of pass-midnight texts,

and letters written too late

then folded again and again,

creased in pockets like timelines

we forgot to live.

the heart speaks in pulses.

the body answers in static.

i wrote you letters i didn’t send.

then i did. then i lost track 

of the version i meant to send.

the heart does that too.

it remembers only the most recent rewrite

for something as soft as memory.

i knew, the way the body knows

the weather of someone else’s motion

some dreams don’t start as dreams.

they arrive like postcards from another life:

i am in a storm.

i am the storm.

i am running.

i am you. 

in dreams,

everything means everything,

but only in the way

the heart means when it flinches

when we’re not in dreams,

our bodies unsure what to do with themselves.

my memory: a black sea.

my heart: a clock without hands.

the heart echoes a truth so deep

it sounds like a secret.

sometimes it grows quiet

like the air before a storm.

sometimes, it doesn’t stop.

and maybe we used to be one person.

split by time.

maybe that’s why your pain shows up

in my limbs.

because

the heart is not a metaphor.

it’s the thing that is still moving

after everything else

gives up.

from my hearts. ©️all rights reserved.