In The Heart
In the heart, something ungoverned hums beneath the language of reason.
In the heart, feeling refuses names, slipping past definition like light through unclosed curtains.
In the heart, grief softens into a quiet weight, mistaken for emptiness by those who have not held it.
In the heart, desire grows in secret, wild and unchecked, asking for nothing it can justify.
In the heart, memory rearranges itself, a gallery where nothing hangs where it once did.
In the heart, words arrive too late,
Already inadequate to what they attempt to contain.
In the heart, we learn attachment not as theory, but as ache.
In the heart, pleasure leans too closely to pain, the two speaking in nearly identical voices.
In the heart, thought turns inward, questioning itself until meaning frays.
In the heart, the body remembers what the mind abandons.
In the heart, the self flickers, uncertain, unfinished.
In the heart, shame settles deep, unnamed but always understood.
In the heart, time stretches under sorrow, each moment lingering past its welcome.
In the heart, love becomes too many things at once: devotion, hunger, illusion.
In the heart, fear redraws the world in harsher lines.
In the heart, clarity becomes cold, almost cruel in its honesty.
In the heart, hope remains anyway—small, unreasonable, alive.
In the heart, contradictions make a home beside one another.
In the heart, silence is full, not empty.
In the heart, everything is felt too deeply, until feeling disappears alltogether.
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