The Beating Heart

She needed to believe her heart would beat again, but the words she heard were matched with unfulfilled, meaningless gestures. At end of the night all she could expect were cold hands in an empty bed. Quietly she moved from the bed and into another room; it was something she did with a certain familiarity as she hugged herself and wondered how the darkness had become her only companion. Each night seems to stretch into a week, overlapped by the same conversation from the night before. It was if she had become the featured player in endless reruns of a silent movie in black and white. Every minute alone in the dark was cradled into an art form of slow motion, as she silently plotted her escape; but in the end, she never seem to be able to decide, always being caught half-in and half-out. A certain sameness cloaked itself in the center of her life, knowing it was a precarious condition for her heart. All she wanted was to traverse her own self-imposed boundaries without the need to compromise. Her mind drifted off as it often did when she sat by herself with the lights off, wondering where does the heart go when it is lost and afraid it will never beat again, afraid to believe again.