Sometimes when she’s alone and
she’s feeling introspective, she delves into her heart, past the bruises left
by relationships long gone, gently brushing the cracked and fragile filaments
of faithless friends that flake at the slightest breath, breezing by the cannon
ball holes penetrating the walls left from unfulfilled promises. All of that is
in the past. Like the Greek mediums who peered at animal remains to determine
destiny, her hands pull apart her rib cage so she can get a better look at the
future.
It’s a bright and piercing heart
for sure, brilliant with joy as it feeds on friends’ happiness, pumping their
euphoria back into her veins. But it has its darker parts too, for the nineteen
years that it’s pumped for her have not been without scars and sores. She
stitched those up, covered them with a band aid, sealed them with a kiss, and
they rarely give her trouble now a days.
Her heart
doesn’t belong to another person right now, and she tells herself she’s alright
with that. But each heart pump and each heart thump means she’s young and her
song is unsung and the drum beats of death echo ever so slightly in the blood
that pulses through her veins. She’s got time to fall in love, everyone says,
and she nods carefully. For she knows this is truth, but her heart still
twinges and cringes when she watches fellow friends fall for each other.
So she
inspects the future, and she asks herself if she’d be alright with a lonely
heart, for the prospects of heart-giving in the future seem dim as the twilight
evening. Give it to God, she knows she must, but the lust that fills her seems
unjust for what if she dies turns to dust and her heart is hushed. These are
the thoughts that haunt her head when she lies in bed wondering if she was dead
would others care or would her heart simply stop beating and there would be no
lover no friends to notice the absence of her thump.
If a heart
stops and no one’s around to hear it, does it matter?
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