Music of the heart
The heart is like music—
not the kind played loud in crowded rooms,
But the kind you feel in your bones,
It plays a song no one else can write,
a private melody tucked behind ribs,
beating,
always beating.
Yours is the kind of music
that makes the silence jealous.
Not loud,
but alive.
I hear it when the world goes still,
when laughter fades
, and the quiet settles in like dust.
That’s when your heart sings the loudest.
It isn't just blood and muscle—
It's a symphony.
A lullaby wrapped in skin.
Each beat a verse,
Each pause a breath between stanzas.
I think life is made of moments like this—
the ones where you realize
You’re not alone in the world,
because someone else is still here,
still beating.
I rest my head on your chest
Like it’s the only speaker I need.
And there it is—
The steady thump that says
You’re here,
You’re real,
You’re mine,
Your heart—
a living chorus
That makes the dark days lighter,
that makes simply being
feel like more than enough.
And if I ever forget
Why I stayed,
Why I fought,
Why I chose to keep breathing—
I'll remember the sound of you.
And I’ll stay
to hear one more beat.
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